


Battered Dove

by Battydings



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Dark, Drug Use, F/M, Leroux-based, Modern Universe, Sexual Content, heavy material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 53,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battydings/pseuds/Battydings
Summary: A contract killer’s world is thrown in disarray when a broken woman inserts herself into his life.*A dark tale about addiction
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 244
Kudos: 110





	1. The Alley

The first time he heard her sing, it was the most beautiful yet disturbing thing he had ever heard. Sitting in the chair of his empty basement apartment, he sat by his only window and wept. How could a voice sound so pure, yet so dead? Curiosity prompted him to push the small, black curtain to the side and peer through the window to view this curious creature. 

There she was, bathed in the gold light of the late afternoon sun, the glow of the sunlight reflecting brightly upon her disheveled hair. Yet even in the most flattering light of the day, she looked ghastly, even to one such as him. Her figure was painfully thin, her face pale and gaunt, the bags beneath her eyes pronounced. It occurred to him that she looked incredibly ill. 

Sitting on the dirty sidewalk, in her rumpled, unwashed clothing, she plucked clumsily on a slightly broken guitar and sang for pedestrians, earning loose change and the occasional crumpled dollar bill. The girl was obviously homeless, but there was more to it than that. 

His mind was warring within. He needed her to stop this painful assault on his senses. Clutching his ears, tears streaming from his eyes, wracked in sob after sob, he felt himself dying inside from the spell of this vocal witchcraft. When silence fell once more, he felt his soul going through a strange withdrawal. It occurred to him that he felt a connection to this broken girl. With shaking fingers, he pulled the curtain to the side and let out a pained cry to see she was gone with the blanket of night. 

That night was sleepless, he paced his apartment fitfully. Who was she? Why did he feel the way that he did? She had utterly bewitched him with her despair. No person should hold this much power over him. 

This haunting experience repeated itself for days. She would sit on the sidewalk across the street from his apartment and torment him with her eerie refrains. Each time he wished she would disappear, while simultaneously wishing to clutch her near, to hold her deep inside his heart and never let her go. He longed to shelter her from the madness of the world, to kiss away the sorrow lining her face. 

The following day her voice emerged once more, weaving itself around him like the torturous arms of an abusive lover. He rushed to the window to see her again, she looked more ill today, as though she found it hard to stay upright. Somehow, despite her body looking as destroyed as it was, her voice was still ringing with a clarity most seasoned singers dreamed of obtaining. 

A passing man in an expensive suit looked her up and down, reached into his pocket to withdraw his wallet and tossed a crisp twenty dollar bill into her battered guitar case. Her face lit up, her natural beauty breaking through the clouds of her depraved hygiene. Under different circumstances, she would look like an enchantress. Instead she was grey and soiled, his battered little dove.

Moments later, she stopped her singing and began to pack up her guitar. With dismay, he watched her as she grabbed the case and a hefty backpack and began to walk down the street. Where was she going? It was not night yet, there was still a half hour of light left in the sky. 

Panicking, he grabbed the ridiculous prosthetic that masqueraded as a real face and adorned it. 

It took him a few minutes to find her as she cut through the narrow streets toward skid row. His heart plummeted when he saw her hand the twenty dollar bill to a man standing on the corner, watched with revulsion as the man spit a balloon full of heroin from his mouth and hand it to her. She tucked it into her pocket and continued on her way.

Keeping his distance he followed her progress until she entered an alley full of refuse and abandoned furniture, smelling ripe of sour milk. She was oblivious to his lurking presence as she sat in a filth-ridden corner behind a dumpster and partook in a familiar ritual. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to make her stop, to swat this syringe from her shaking, anticipating fingers, to halt the needle from plunging into the waiting vein in the crook of her arm. 

He was intimate with this cruel ceremony. How long had it been since he had partaken? 5 years? Six? He failed to remember. His veins had been closed for a long while, music was his master now. 

With a flickering breath of relief and the fluttering of her lashes, she slumped forward, the syringe falling from her hand, its plastic barely audible as it hit the dirty pavement. Her arm was still tied off, a drop of blood welling from the spot where she had injected. 

The sun was disappearing, bathing the city in the comforting dark of dusk. 

He bent before her, she would be gone for a while, fallen in the darkest realm of her consciousness. His skeletal fingers reached out and brushed the hair that had fallen into her face. God, she was exquisite, gorgeous yet spiritually shattered.

Without debating the point too long, he gently untied her arm, rolled the sleeve of her grungy sweatshirt back down, grabbed her backpack and lifted her into his arms. The guitar was old, it could be left behind and replaced. 

As he walked through the backstreets towards his apartment cradling her in his long, spindly arms, he reveled in the way her soft, pliable body felt, the manner in which her heat warmed his cold bones. He may be made of death, but he was going to bring her life.

She just did not know yet.

When he emerged into his apartment, with his precious, unconscious cargo in tow, he felt alive for the first time. He positioned her into the soft confines of the bed he rarely used, tucking her into the covers like he was packing a priceless Ming vase. 

He rummaged through the pockets of her pack, desperately seeking to find something that would tell him more about his new acquisition. When his fingers withdrew the thin, rectangular piece of plastic, he nearly shouted with joy. 

Reading the name on the ID card, it struck him that, deep inside, that he had known her name all along.

He walked back into his bedroom, standing above her helpless form in his own bed.

Breathing the word like a sacred mantra, he said, “Christine.”


	2. The Rude Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second chapter is for all the folks who convinced me to push this story further.
> 
> A quick heads up though, this one is dark. Very Leroux-based. There is talk of drug use so keep that in mind also.

He foolishly sliced the palm of his hand on the sharp edge of the sheet of metal but was too engrossed in his task to tend the wound. The thick steel was covering the layer of sound insulating foam he had placed over the window. By the time he had finished his job, bolting the metal covering firmly into place over his only porthole to the outside world, the facade of the project resembled a macabre painting of red streaks and handprints.

The rest of his home was practically fool proof, she would never find a way out the front door even if she tried. The three-story building in which he lived was abandoned, he had made sure of that. When he had purchased it years ago, finding the basement rooms to have the better acoustics, he set up his home partially below ground while keeping the remainder of the apartments vacant.

Yet paranoia was a burdensome thing, embroidered deeply into his psyche by past experience. It had resorted him to install cleverly hidden entrances, locked by mechanisms of his own genius design. The window was the one thing he could never bring himself to fully alter, which in hindsight seemed to be the Achilles heel of his secure premises. Bars were tightly fixed on the outside, but he would not take any chances now that he had such a precious new possession. Someone could hear her and that would not do.

A little inner voice was chastising him for his actions, but he batted it away frantically. He didn’t care if what he was doing was wrong. She would be grateful she was off the street; he would give her a good life. _Then why do you need to trap her inside? What are you hoping to gain from this?_ , the voice asked.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his motivations were. When he saw her nodding off in that gritty alley, he had no time to properly think. All he knew were the intoxicating feelings of ownership that overcame him in that moment. She was his wounded little bird and she needed him. Since first he heard her heartbreaking voice, he had desired nothing more than to crush her against him. Never before had such a violent, desperate feeling of _need_ possessed him. He _needed_ Christine Daaé. She was broken like he was, utterly crushed beneath the callous, careless heel of the world.

_Have you forgotten what a terrifying creature you are? What makes you think she won’t simply die of fright when she sees you?,_ The voice continued.

“Shut up.” He said out loud, removing the mask to rub the deeply hollow sockets of his eyes. He did not talk to himself often, but the sheer anxiety of the situation was causing his mind to slip a bit. What was he doing? He was like some fairy tale monster keeping the princess trapped inside the dungeon.

He replaced the mask once more. Wearing it for extended periods of time was greatly uncomfortable, but now, with this lovely woman in his home, it felt like a necessity. It was a terribly expensive prosthetic, realistic enough for nighttime missions, yet uncanny in the daylight. It had been created by a gifted doctor who specialized in ‘giving second chances’ to patients with deformations. The problem with doctors were their damned curiosities, he was not in the mood to become a medical oddity for those fools. Unfortunately for the doctor, who, after the process of scanning and molding the contours of his hideous visage, had seen far too much for comfort and had to meet an untimely demise. A pity really, he would be required to find another doctor should he need another mask in the future. Although perhaps he simply ought to learn how to craft one himself, he would hate to break the neck of every good doctor in the country…

Modern films featuring members of the undead did not do his face justice. The zombies they featured in movies looked fake, just someone Hollywood producer’s imagination of what a corpse truly resembled. His face was the stuff of nightmares, all waxen skin and deep hollows, a crater serving as his nose. There are mummies displayed in museums with more attractive, complete faces than he.

Christine could never see his face, that would be disastrous.

As silent as a wraith, he floated to his bedroom door and peeked inside. She was still lost in the throes of heroin. She had been out for a long time, it concerned him. Approaching her still form on the bed, he reached his spiderlike fingers towards her face and felt for her breath. It was light, shallow. He frowned. An overdose could cause hypoventilation, resulting in inadequate respiratory gas exchange. His heart felt the claws of fear clutching it.

Acting quickly, he rushed to exit his home, ensuring the doors locked behind him. The pharmacy was merely at the end of the block, it would be closed at this time, but had it been open he would have been forced to violence to get what he needed. He had broken into this pharmacy more times than he could count, knew the angles of all the cameras, knew the correct access points. Often, he broke in for trivial things, toothpaste, pens, batteries, Ibuprofen. Only once or twice did he find himself taking inventory of the controlled medications behind the counter, the opiates, the barbiturates, the ADHD medications, tempted to take them, but willing himself away.

It wasn’t as though he had stopped using because he had found a higher power or whatever such nonsense, they tout in twelve step groups. He had simply found they robbed him of control, muddled his head, plus there was the uncomfortable truth that the more he used the less they worked. He still felt every terrible things he had tried to cover in the first place and the drugs merely accentuated that misery, somehow made him feel even lonelier than he already was.

He found himself standing before the rows of contraband once more. Grabbing several bottles of opiates in various concentrations, he thrust them into his coat pocket and moved on to find the thing he was truly looking for, Naloxone. The white and red boxes lined neatly on the shelf were easy enough to find and he quickly snatched two. His poor little dove was soon to have a somewhat rude awakening.

When he once more found himself standing over the young woman lying prone in his canopy bed, he quickly went to work feeling for her pulse. It was there, a very faint little thing that seemed on the verge of failing. Her breathing had nearly slowed to a stop. He had very little time.

He was surprised by his shaking hands as he opened one of the boxes, simultaneously afraid for her life and for her inevitable terror when she woke to see the creature who had stolen her away. Shoving the thoughts into the back of his head, he concentrated on playing the part of a surgeon and his hands steadied once more. The nasal spray required no assembly, fully ready to do its job. With the fingertips of one hand, he gently positioned her face for the application. The nozzle was pushed slightly into her nose. He took a deep breath and pushed the plunger.

He stepped back and waited for the drug to do its magic. One incredibly long minute passed, then two. Did it even work? Did he do something wrong?

Suddenly her eyes flew open, she let out a terrible moan and gasped for breath. She shot upright and clutched her chest, her teeth were chattering. There was something feral about the way she looked about the room, her expression agitated and lost. When she saw him, she looked confused, but did not say a word, instead she continued to shiver and shake like a leaf in a storm.

“Christine.” He softly said, making use of the power he knew his voice possessed.

Her eyes were riveted to his, her breathing seemed to quicken. Eventually she broke eye contact to look around once more, the walls, the furniture, and finally the bed in which she lay. “Where am I?” She rasped, her voice rough from dehydration.

“You are safe. This is my home.” He calmly replied, holding his hands up as he approached, as though she were a spooked deer that would run at any moment.

“Why did you bring me here?” She demanded, her teeth her still chattering loudly together. He knew she felt god-awful at the present, as the drug binding to the opium receptors of the brain would resemble withdrawal. “Where is my stuff?” She panicked.

“You overdosed, Christine. I saved you.” He calmly replied.

Clutching the bedding around her she continued to quake like a leaf. “Narcan.” She whispered.

“Yes.” He replied. “This is not your first experience with it.” Not a question.

She shook her head. “Once before.” Her voice cracked on the response.

He pointed to a plastic bottle of water sitting upon the nightstand. “Water?”

She nodded and he unscrewed the cap and presented her the bottle. Her eyes were full of suspicion as she accepted the plastic vessel with quivering fingers. _Rightfully so_ , he thought. Watching her lift the spout to her small, pert lips, he felt the jolt of some long dormant desire shoot through his body. He painfully forced his eyes away from the unintentionally erotic scene.

So far, she seemed to take her circumstances fairly well. _Only because she doesn’t know you won’t let her walk out the front door,_ the voice said. He inwardly shushed the inner monologue.

Her eyes were fixated on his face, as though she were trying to understand what seemed so off about it. Under the mellow gold light of the single lit lamp of his bedroom, the light would certainly be flattering. He would probably even appear handsome right in this moment, a thought which gave him conflicting feelings. On one hand, wouldn’t it be lovely for a young woman to believe him attractive? Yet it felt cheap all the same to be mistaken for a good-looking man, he felt disgusted by what he could never be.

“Who are you?” She asked, he voice smoother from the water.

“You wish to know my name?” He asked, pleased. He saw the pleasure his voice gave her, the softening of her features as the words rolled from his nothing lips. “I am Erik.”

“Erik.” She whispered, and a shiver of delight coursed through his body at the sound of his name issuing from her lips. “I need to go, Erik.”

“Ah,” He purred, here it was. The moment that would quite possibly make him a villain. “I am afraid I cannot allow that.”

Her teeth were still clattering together, her eyes grew large like full, blue moons.

As she stared at him in pure horror, he was certain she was about to scream.


	3. The Gremlin

** Chapter Three: The Gremlin **

****

She was going through sudden withdrawal and she was panicking. He watched as she scrambled up from the bed and looked about her surroundings. The realization of what he was doing hit him like a million pounds falling from space. Looking at his palm, sliced clean open from the barrier he had placed over the window in the living room, he had the terrible, dawning revelation that this was not the way. She was like a wild animal and he was the hideous trapper who had ensnared her in his net, it was no wonder she was so completely terrified.

He held his palms up, he needed to reel this back in, surely there was another way…

“Allow me to explain.” He softly spoke to her a though she were a child. “You would have died had I not brought you here.” It wasn’t a complete lie, she would have surely crossed into the realm of Death had he not intervened, she did not need to know he had initially intended to keep her. “I wish for you to stay until you recover. Just for the evening, you may take the bed. In the morning, you may leave.”

Once the words had left his nothing lips, he felt an odd sort of relief. He was a killer, not a kidnapper of young women. Sin may have coated his soul like hot, sticky tar, but there were lines he had never crossed. He had actually gleefully murdered human traffickers on occasion, they weren’t difficult to find in this city, and he had done so for free. It was a wonder Christine had never fallen prey to their extended web, she was certainly pretty enough for that inhumane market.

She was still quivering like a leaf in a storm, looking pale and ill. He had moved an empty wastebasket by the bed in the case of a sudden bout of nausea. Those starling blue eyes of hers were filled with a stormy, cloudy swirl of emotions as he saw the wheels in her head turning, attempting to make sense of her situation.

“You aren’t a serial killer, are you?” She asked with a voice that wavered slightly.

“I am not going to kill you.” He replied, avoiding a direct answer.

Her eyes were fixated with bewilderment at his face. _Ah,_ he thought morosely, _She had just discovered it is a sham._

“What’s wrong with your face?” She asked. “Why do you wear that?”

He sighed. “That is a rather impertinent question, don’t you agree?”

“Imper… Impertan…” She struggled with the word.

“Rude, Christine, it means rude.” His voice held a low sort of growl. “I wear it for medical purposes.” He dryly informed her. He sat in a chair by the bed, crossing his thin legs gracefully.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, looking down at the soiled sleeves of her dirty sweatshirt. He would need to find her a new set of clothing, he was not prepared to let her leave his home in such garbage. “How do you know my name?”

He tapped the fingers of one hand on his kneecap absentmindedly. “When one has a young woman nearly die on them, one wishes to know their name.” He glanced in her direction. Then rolled his eyes and replied. “I discovered your identification card.” He explained. “I also know you’re much older than you look, and that you have an upcoming birthday. You are to be twenty-six in a few days.”

She nodded. “Happy birthday to me.” She said pathetically.

He fell silent. He, too, hated his own birthday.

“I feel sick.” She said suddenly.

“The washroom is over there.” He pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “If you are unable to make it that far.” He pointed to the wastebin. “I’d hate to clean vomit from my Persian rug, do be mindful.”

He watched as she climbed out of the bed and carried herself on shaking legs to the en suite bathroom, wondering what she would think when she saw the opulence he had created there. It was his second favorite room in his large apartment. Many a night, he had spent in the enormous and deep black marble jacuzzi tub, soaking after a particularly arduous and bloody mission. Some of his best compositions came in those long, hours languishing in the scalding water which miraculously heated his cold bones.

The strangled sound of retching came through the door, as she likely strained to find relief to no avail. Narcan could last for many hours, up to an entire day, in which the user would be forced into opioid withdrawal.

Christine was in the bathroom for quite a while, occasionally turning the water on in the sink and running it for an extended period of time. It alternated this way, between the sounds of unsuccessful gagging and the running of tap water for nearly an hour.

Finally, she emerged. Her hair slightly damp and her face looking a bit fresher.

“You have a really nice bathroom.” She mumbled dumbly. Holding a towel, she asked. “What should I do with this? I used it.”

He stood and took it from her, acknowledging how her eyes looked up uneasily at his imposing height. He dwarfed her by nearly a foot.

“Would you enjoy a proper bath?” He asked softly, as the words flew past his lips, he conjured an image of her lounging naked in the black marble tub and it was painful in its brilliance. He stepped back to put space between them. He felt like he was going mad, what was happening to him? She nodded in agreement to his question. “I will find you some suitable clothing.” He murmured, stepping backward and feeling terribly awkward, suddenly at a loss of what to do. He found himself rummaging through a set of drawers, looking for something she could wear. Everything he owned would swallow her whole, but it was only temporary.

Pulling a set of clean, black sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt from the bottom drawer, he handed them to her.

“Leave your dirty clothing outside the bathroom. I will put them in the wash.” He said softly before leaving the bedroom and closing the door.

He stood on the other side of the closed door, panting like a rabid animal. Women had never caught his eye before, not like this. Sure, he had occasionally noticed the sexual appeal of a woman from time to time, in passing glances, as though casually looking at a pretty display through a shop window. Nothing he had experienced was like this.

She was a tiny waif of a thing in ill fitting, dirty clothing and stringy hair. Nothing about her fit the criteria of a sex symbol, and yet his body and mind were crafting all sorts of sordid images of her. Simultaneous he wished to care for her and dote on her while doing graphic things to her body.

Perhaps he had finally lost his mind after all…a lifetime of solitude, an occupation of death, a traumatic history…perhaps they had all finally sent him reeling down into the mouth of madness. He peeled the mask from his face and rubbed the hollows of his eyes.

It would be better when she was gone, he decided. This whole evening had been foolish. He suddenly wished she had never chosen his block to sing.

Upon hearing the water running through the door, the recognizable sound of the huge marble jacuzzi being filled, he decided to slip out into the night and find her something decent to wear.

When he returned from his trip, carrying stolen articles of clothing from a trendy boutique located several blocks away, he felt like an intruder in his own home. With the sharp point of his knuckle, he rapped loudly upon the solid wooden door of the bedroom. Through the door she gave the okay to enter.

She was sitting upon the bed, her tiny frame lost in the black sweat clothing she wore. He held up the neatly folded pile of new clothing, jeans, a warm sweater and a thick coat. Her brows furrowed. “Where did you get these?” She asked.

“Erik has his ways.” He shrugged. “Winter is approaching, you require more than that flimsy thing you were wearing.” He moved to leave the room but halted and turned back around to face her. She looked more radiant, her skin pink and flushed from the bath. “Do you not have family?”

She shook her head and pulled on the long sleeve of the borrowed sweatshirt. “They died.” She replied softy.

“You’ve nobody else?” He asked. “How long have you been on the street?”

“A year…I think.” She replied, as she chewed nervously on her bottom lip.

“How long have you been using opiates?” He finally asked.

“A bit longer…” She softly spoke. “My papa died from cancer…after he died, I still had bottles of his medication left.”

“You used it to numb the pain of his loss.”

She nodded. “I didn’t mean to…get hooked, or whatever.”

He sat down in the chair by the bed. “Do you wish to continue using?” She shook her head to that. “There are resources for people in your position, treatment centers, sober living…” He trailed off.

“You don’t understand, you don’t know what it’s like…” She whispered.

He tutted her, rolling up the dark fabric of his dress shirt to reveal the evidence of collapsed veins in his arm. “It’s been several years, but I believe I qualify as one who understands.”

“How?” She whispered. “Did you do treatment?”

“No.” He replied. “I did it here.”

“You must have a very strong will.” She remarked.

The corners of his thin lips turned up in a bittersweet smile. “Not always.” He replied sadly. He may have remained clean, but this evening had taught him that he was still weak.

There were a million questions he wished to ask her. Like a book, he had read the blurb typed upon her inner jacket and now he wished to consume the entire novel. Her soul was not blackened and covered in soot like his, she still had an innocence despite a hard life.

“How do you make money?” He boldly asked, terrified of how she would respond. Was she forced to degrade herself in order to survive? The thought sickened him, but he knew it was the reality for many women on the street.

She bristled at that question. “If you are trying to proposition me, I don’t do that.” She insisted fiercely and he became somewhat impressed with the fire that had lit inside her that moment. The little dove had some fight in her after all.

He chuckled darkly. “I am doing no such thing. I am simply curious.”

She still shook a bit, but she seemed to be fighting the symptoms of withdrawal with grace. “I sing, I’m a busker.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard you sing.” He replied.

She was tugging on the long sleeve of the sweater but paused and looked at him with surprise. “When?”

He smirked. “You set up your little makeshift music hall across the street over the past few days.” He held up his index finger, realizing something important and stood to exit the room.

Glancing at the drawn curtain, covering the steel plate he had placed above the window, he reminded himself to take down the ridiculous symbol of oppression. She wasn’t an animal that he could trap, she needed to leave. He would feel better once she was gone. _Not true,_ his inner voice popped up, _this is the most meaningful conversation you have had in years._

Sighing at the truthfulness of his own inner thoughts, he moved to the corner of the room where he kept his instruments. The object he sought was buried beneath several other instruments; it was never used, he had really only purchased it on a whim. He liked the artfulness of its design.

Pulling the case free from its lonely prison, he brought it back to the bedroom and presented it to her.

“It is a replacement.” He explained, when she gave him a quizzical expression. “I could not carry an unconscious woman and a guitar at the same time.” The black case was set upon the bed. With a sharp snap, the clasps were released and the case opened to reveal a pristine, dark colored Gibson Montana SJ-200 Standard.

She shook her head furiously. “I cannot accept this.” She whispered.

“Would you rather it stays here, where it is never played?” He coolly replied, “I find the guitar is not my preferred instrument, it will merely collect dust if it remains here.”

She looked at his with large, beseeching eyes what evolved into a look of fury. “You can’t buy me, I’m not going to sleep with you.” She said angrily.

He felt the insult down to his very core. “You ridiculous little girl.” He spat. “I’m not trying to bed you; I’m simply replacing that which you have lost.” And with that he left the bedroom and into the living room to fume, sitting upon the bench of the piano and pounding out a furious string of angry, temperamental chords. The chords evolved into a more sweeping melody as the fury began to ebb away. He began to feel shame, for he was not as innocent as he proclaimed. He had taken this girl, whom he did not even know, brought her into his home, barricaded his window, and had schemed on ways to keep her. He had done much worse than try to coerce her into sex with the gift of an expensive guitar.

So lost was he in the sweeping, sumptuous melody that was evolving beneath his fingertips that he did not see the flash of a tiny arm as it fell upon his shoulder. His instincts kicked in and he snatched the offending limb in a terrible grip, fearful it was trying to demask him.

She gasped and he released her hand. “I apologize.” He mumbled. “I am not accustomed to having guests in my home.” He noticed she had dressed in the clothing he had provided.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She whispered. “That guitar is too nice. I just…I can’t take it. That must have cost thousands of dollars…” She looked at the ground. “I would break it, or it would be stolen…I’m sorry I assumed the worst of you, it hasn’t been easy. The guys I meet out there aren’t chivalrous like you.”

He nearly rolled his eyes at that last part. If she only knew…He sighed and reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. Pulling two-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, he handed it to her. “There is a pawn shop down the street. They sell instruments. That should cover the cost of a starter guitar.” She stared at the money like it was foreign object. “Just take it, Christine.” He commanded. “If you will not accept mine, at least allow me to buy you a cheaper alternative.”

She snatched the bills from his hand and shoved them into the pocket of the new jeans. “I need to go now.” She whispered; he knew exactly what she had on her mind. She wanted to go spend that money on drugs the moment it was in her pocket, he could see the wheels spinning in her little addict brain. He knew that look that came over her eyes.

“I’ve one more thing to give you.” He sighed, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out one of the bottles he had swiped from the pharmacy. Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw the label. “Don’t make me regret giving this to you, but I’d rather you use a high grade pharmaceutical than whatever fentanyl nightmare you used last night.” He looked gravely at her. “The Narcan is blocking your opiate receptors at the moment. It will take hours to clear, I would truly recommend you stay here until the morning. Anything you use now will only be a waste.”

He saw her shaking, her teeth chattering from the withdrawal. She was fighting it like a brave little soldier, but even someone as strong as he had been taken down from by the hell of those sensations.

“Please.” He pleaded, the tone and word sounded strange coming from his mouth.

She nodded and walked back to the bedroom, closing the door behind her and locking it, leaving him holding the bottle of pills. He glanced at the label, the gremlin that hung on his back began to whisper in his ear, how easy it would be to open that orange bottle and pop one of those chalky white pills into his mouth.

He set the bottle upon the piano and walked over to the window.

By the time sun rose the next day, the window was free of its barricade.

Christine slipped quietly from the bedroom, accepted the bottle of pharmaceutical grade opiates, and followed him out through his front door. If she noticed the odd construction of his entryway, how it blended into the wall, she didn’t mention it.

Leading her through the dark hallway and up the stairs leading towards the street exit, he felt conflicted. But as she stepped into the early light of the morning and down the street, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He would probably never see her again. He was glad of it.


	4. A Ship in the Night

** Chapter Four: A Ship in the Night **

****

Days slipped by like ghost ships on an inky, black night. He kept himself busy, improving security features on the hallway which led to his grand basement apartment. When he had purchased the nondescript brick building, it was filled with squatters and human refuse. He had poured gallons of blood, sweat and tears into the project. Years were spent gutting out the basement floor and renovating it from the bones up, insulating it, installing fine wood paneling, parquet flooring, and plenty of secrets.

He could afford to live in any of the better, more affluent uptown neighborhoods, but he preferred downtown. Nobody gave him a second thought when he passed them on the street, they were all too wrapped up in the misery or struggle of their own impoverished lives to care. He had run into the occasional armed mugger, a shame for them. It never went in the favor of the strung-out thieves. _Never mug a contract killer,_ Erik would say in their ear before dispatching them. 

It was the basement hallway and the potential for good acoustics that had drawn him to this building. Sporting a long, narrow hallway, it would make a very ideal passageway in which he could secure with some of his determents. Most of his traps were lethal, but after one incident a couple years back, in which he was left with a frustratingly large body to dispose of, he decided it would be best to simply hide the front door of his passage. If it appeared as brick on the outside, it would simply deter anyone from attempting to enter.

Over the years he had installed deterrents in the upper floors of the building, pipes that led up from the basement acted as efficient speakers through which he could send terrible, ghostly sounds. The acoustic pipes had a more authentic sound than digital speakers. Small censors indicated when he had intruders and he could simply send them a ghastly message from the comfort of his own apartment.

The building had a reputation among the homeless as being haunted. Since that reputation continued to linger among the squatting community, he had seen fewer trespassers.

As he finished his work on the mechanism for his own front door, improving the fluidity of the hinge, his thoughts continued to drift to that girl. _Woman_ , he reminded himself, _she merely looks young._

She had seemed so naïve, so innocent. He couldn’t help but wonder what her life was like before, what had allowed her to maintain those childlike qualities. Lord knows, he had lost his childhood before it began, but not her…something had maintained elements of that child spirit despite her age. How had she stayed intact for so long, despite a year on the street, despite a terrible addiction?

That wasn’t the total of her enigma, there was something else that kept nagging at him like an endlessly mimicking parrot…

When he had presented her the guitar, she had immediately refused, even when she knew his intentions for offering it were correct. She knew how costly that guitar was. That gave some indication for her understanding of instruments, but not only that, it showed a level of respect for them. Anyone else may have simply taken that stringed instrument and pawned it for drug money, but not her. She was different than all the other junkies he encountered.

Since the moment she left, he had fought the temptation to go searching for her. He kept telling himself her wellbeing didn’t concern him. She had not returned to his block since last he saw her, perhaps she used the two hundred dollars to purchase a guitar and began busking elsewhere, perhaps she bought a cheap motel room for a few days, perhaps she bought a bus ticket and got out of town. Regardless, she was gone now and away from his itching fingers.

_You don’t need a woman complicating your life_ , he told himself, _Women no longer appeal to you, remember?_ Years back, he had solicited the services of a high-end prostitute. He wished to experience the satisfaction of his desire. The escort had been vacant, artificial, dull eyed, vapid and he found he simply could not perform, regardless of her obvious beauty and skill. It proved to be the single most uncomfortable evening of his life, which is a wonder considering he had once been outright tortured once. Since that travesty of an evening, he had sworn off women completely. He didn’t need them, and they certainly did not need him. His bizarre attraction to Christine was surely a fluke, a moment of temporary insanity. That sudden impluse to hold, to have, to possess, to nurture, to protect, it was all thoroughly out of character for someone like him.

Late fall was bringing in a wicked storm, a chill had descended upon the city.It was the sort of weather which Erik enjoyed, he appreciated how the heavy rain drove away pedestrians, clearing the streets of life. He enjoyed sitting by the fire, lost in the pages of a book, and sipping tea while the rain pounded the pavement like tiny feet just outside his only window. The rain brought a lovely cocoon of sound that drowned out the world.

He had a job to do, but with the incoming thunderstorm, he decided to let his mark live for another day, the kill would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, instead, he would warm himself by the fire and absorb himself in the remarkable works of Dostoevsky. It would be a shame to spoil such a lovely evening with the mundane oppression of work.

When the sky burst open and the rain fell outside like buckets, he had already settled down for the evening with his heavy tome and pot of tea. A brief smile lit his face when he heard the distinctive sound of the rain evolving into hail. It was pleasant as it tinkered against the thick, bulletproof glass of the small window. He stopped reading and closed his eyes, lost in the musical sound of it but that sound changed as a frantic rapping overpowered it.

He stiffened and set his book aside, there was someone knocking on his window. He glanced to check the small black curtain was securely in place. Perhaps he ought to have left that metal up after all….

“Erik!” He was sure he heard through the thick pane and his heart froze.

_She’s back._

Flying out his front door, he quickly and effortlessly deactivated every deterrent on his march down the hallway.

When he silently walked up behind her, the hail falling hard against his body, she was crouched down on her hands and knees on the wet sidewalk, with her tiny arm thrust through the bar of the window, knocking furiously upon the small basement window.

“May I help you, Christine?” He spoke coolly over the hail.

She jumped and let out a shriek at the sudden sound of his voice. He noticed the cheap, flimsy guitar case by her side. A warm bloom of pride swelled in his breast at her choosing of music over all else.

Scuffling to her feet, her knees and shins wet from their contact with the soaked pavement, she turned toward him like a woman prepared to meet her doom.

“I…” She began but shook her head. “I couldn’t find the front door. I’m sorry I knocked on the window…” As she tried to explain, the hail became wetter and soon the two were standing in a true downpour of pure rain.

“Come.” He stated as he turned to walk back to the entrance of his home.

She struggled to keep up as she carried the awkward guitar case. Her fingers reached out to touch the hidden door as it opened, her eyes marveling at the brick façade.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice you didn’t have a normal front door.” She said dumbly as they walked down the hallway toward his apartment. “But I did recognize the building. Some people told me to stay away…”

“They were not incorrect.” Erik said with an icy edge to his voice. What was she doing here? Why on earth would she willingly come into his lion’s den? He halted and turned around to see the pitiful soaked creature before him. “Why are you here, Christine?”

“I’m having trouble.” She said nervously. “I can’t go to the shelter I’ve been staying.”

“Why?” He demanded.

“There’s a guy there that has been harassing me.” She spoke, almost tearfully. “He has a reputation…” She shook her head. “I don’t feel safe there right now.” Her eyes looked up into his. “But I do feel safe here.”

His traitorous heart was slamming itself against his ribcage in response to her confession. _She feels safe with you,_ the voice said, _because_ _you let her go. Can you do it a second time?_

A quick sleight of hand to obscure the means for entry and the front door to his apartment opened to reveal itself.

“Why are all the doors in your home so…I don’t know, like the Winchester Mystery house?” She asked. “Are you Houdini or something?”

He scoffed as she entered his living room. “If I had designed the Winchester Mansion, I most certainly would not install stain glass windows in locations which gather no sunlight.” He took her guitar case and placed set it against the wall. “And for the record, I am far better than Houdini.” He looked her up and down. “I suppose you need a dry change of clothes?”

She blushed and he found it had a terribly erotic effect on him, sent the blood thrumming forcefully through his icy veins. Her face looked healthier, she looked less pale, less ill.

He disappeared in the bedroom to gather a similar set of plain black sweat clothes as he had given her on her previous visit.

Ten minutes later, she was sitting next to him on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her legs, sipping a cup of hot tea. She was staring into the fire, with a faraway expression, the hot light reflecting like a kaleidoscope in her large blue eyes.

“You have such a nice place.” She mumbled. “From the outside it looks so run down.” Her eyes scanned the space of the living room, focusing on the corner with instruments and recording equipment. “I should have commented on how well you played the other night, but I wasn’t feeling great.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at her face as she spoke, watching for the small nuances, the micro expressions that would indicate betrayal or dishonesty. There were none. She was not here to con or to steal, she had no sneaky, backhanded agenda.

“I’ve been trying to taper off…” She finally blurted out. “I think I’m ready.”

His curiosity was peaked. “What inspired this change?”

She chewed her thumbnail, he wanted to stop her, the habit was disgusting, but he made no move to do so. “I’ve been in a limbo for so long.” She said quietly, with an empty dullness that felt like a void threatening to suck in all life. “I’ve been in this place where I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live…it’s a bleak hopelessness.” She looked down at her hands with a vacant expression. “I mean, is this going to be my life? What would papa think?” She shook her head and lastly whispered, “It would break his heart.”

The hiss of the gas fire filled the awkward silence as Erik continued to stare at the young women who was spilling her guts before him. She didn’t know enough about him to be afraid; he found the whole experience to be refreshing.

Her blue eyes met his. “What made you stop?” She asked, her expression hopeful, as though whatever wisdom he would impart would be her saving grace.

He leaned back and thoughtfully stared into the blue and yellow flame of the fire. “I dislike imprisonment and that is all it was, a prison. I found it distasteful to lack control of my own mind, my own body.” He looked at her and realized she had that same effect on him. “I wished to be the ruler of my own life.”

“Why did you start?” She asked.

He chuckled humorlessly. “I had a similar experience as yours. I was injured and found that I enjoyed the effects of the medication.”

She nodded in understanding. “I didn’t think I would use this long. I just wanted to get through my father’s funeral, but then there was all the medical debt left behind…” She sighed. “He apologized to me on his deathbed, he was dying and riddled with guilt for his financial decisions.” He could see the tears rolling from her eyes, the glittering trail upon her smooth cheek. “He was so full of regret at the end and it killed me. All he knew was music, but it was hard for him, he always struggled finding steady work.”

“What did he play?” Erik asked as he stood, crossing the room to fetch a tissue.

“Violin.” She gave a weak smile as she accepted his white, paper offering. “It was like an extension of his body.” She said, her voice thick from the tears. “He was born to play, not slave away in a nine to five job.” She sniffled. “Anyway, the debt was too much, it took everything we had in savings, and by that time I had moved onto heroin. I couldn’t afford rent anymore. I couldn’t even keep a fast food job, they found me passed out in the bathroom at work…that was the first time I had Narcan.” She looked up at him, her face covered in a mask of shame. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. You must think I’m so pathetic.”

“I do not think you are pathetic.” He corrected.

“Is that your job?” She asked, brushing the lingering tears from her face. “Are you a musician?”

He gave a faint smile. “I am a musician, but that is not what provides my income.”

“What do you do?” She asked shyly, her eyes looking around at the expensive details of the apartment.

“It’s a secret.” He replied smugly.

She seemed disheartened by his obvious denial to answer her question but didn’t voice it. “Thank you for letting me stay here.” She mumbled.

Gratitude was not something he was accustomed to; he was unsure how to respond when it was pointed in his direction.

“I’m curious what the rumors are about this building, would you enlighten me, Christine?” Her named rolled from his tongue, the syllables felt sinful and delicious as they exited his mouth.

“You’ll think it’s silly.” She huffed. “There are these two women that I know who swear it’s haunted.”

“Ah, they are not incorrect.” He smirked. “The upper levels are full of ghosts, but have no fear, they would not dare come to this level. They are much too frightened of the Siren…She is quite terrible, I daresay, she is quite the gruesome sight, but oh, she has the voice of temptation.” He trailed off as he saw her expression, carrying a faint hint of doubt. “Oh? You don’t believe me? Would you like to meet her?” He asked. Through the wall came an ethereal voice, frightening in its beauty as it sang a wordless melody. Flickering flames of delight curled around his toes as he watched her curiously, mesmerized expression. His voice was influencing images of ghosts and ghouls and mysterious siren creatures, he could practically see the film roll playing behind her eyes. Snapping his fingers sharply, she blinked and appeared dazed.

It was a trick which never grew old.

She tried to play the experience off, probably ashamed she had disappeared in a land of make believe. Feigning a yawn, she replied “It couldn’t possibly be as terrible as some of the old tales my father used to tell me.”

He hummed and leaned back, observing her. The proximity to her was still palpable, yet he found it more bearable with each passing moment. “I should like to hear some of these tales at a later date, however, the hour is growing late. You look tired, you ought to go to bed.”

She looked confused. “I can take the couch.” She insisted.

“You’ll do no such thing. I have work to do.” He pointed to the bedroom door. “There is a lock on the other side if you feel more comfortable.”

She nodded, setting her empty teacup down upon the table. “Thanks again.” She murmured as she rose, her body lost in the borrowed, oversized black clothing.

When she closed the door, he listened for the bolt on the door to make its telltale click, but it never came. He felt simultaneously flattered and appalled. _She’s far too trusting_ , he thought, _it’s a wonder she hasn’t been devoured alive by the monsters out there._

There were more monstrous men than him, he encountered them all the time.

Temptation finally got the better of him, he silently moved across the room towards where her guitar case sat against the wall. He lay it upon its side and carefully opened it to reveal a mediocre, but intact guitar. He went to rummage through a drawer, retrieving a few extra sets of strings to tuck into the case before closing it. Her backpack sat, still damp, against the wall next to the case, calling to him, but he resisted.

Instead, he grabbed his laptop, sat upon the couch and began reviewing his research for his mark. A corporate bigwig, living in the lap of luxury in an overly secure penthouse suite in the upper part of downtown. Amazing what a hodgepodge of society the downtown city life was, a mixture of skid row and the well to do cluttered the densely populated expanse of older buildings and modern skyscrapers. There was surely something metaphorical to be gleamed from rich men living in the sky while the lowest on the social totem pole crawled along the surface far below. Sometimes Erik wondered if the rich loved living downtown, because they enjoyed looking down upon those whom they felt superior to.

Either way, this man was to die tomorrow, but it wouldn’t be a disservice to society in the least. Erik didn’t require any real moral justification for his kills, the right payment usually sufficed, but it was certainly a cherry on top when there was. In this instance, he got both.

Hacking into his mark’s network had gleaned some very interesting intel. It seemed the rich man living in his ivory tower wasn’t satisfied with all the power he held socially, he felt the need to obtain it from children as well and in the worst of ways. It would be a delight to remove him from the world.

He shut the laptop and tossed it on the table. For the remainder of the evening, he stared at the unlocked bedroom door, racing thoughts of the woman behind it running wild.

When morning came, she emerged, she looked somewhat ill and hurried to her backpack to dig out the bottle of pills he had given her several days earlier along with a plastic bottle of water. “I’m sorry.” She mumbled as she popped one in her mouth and swallowed it down with a sip of water. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late; you must be busy.”

“Eight is not late.”

“Usually office people go in early…” She attempted to explain.

The corners of his lip tilted upward. “Are you still attempting to glean my occupation?” He asked.

“No, I just didn’t want to keep you.” She seemed lost; the comfortable ease she had the night before was gone. “I should go.”

He pointed a thin finger in the direction of a table were her clothing which he had washed, dried, and neatly folded the previous night were stacked. She mumbled a statement of gratitude as she disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door.

When she emerged once more, she had tears streaming down her face. _Do I comment?_ He wondered. This woman baffled him; he had no clue of the proper course of action.

She collected her things and stood awkwardly by the section of wall which opened to the outer hallway. He fetched a scarf from his closet and placed it around her neck “You’ve been so kind…” She said softly, her voice cracking with emotion.

“It’s just a scarf, Christine.” He responded dryly as he artfully wrapped it about her slender, pale throat. “You must keep warm, you’ll catch your death out there.”

“No,” She touched his hand and he jerked back at the sudden gesture. “Everything…you’re so nice.”

He let out a strangled laugh. “I am not a good man, Christine.” He professed and her eyes grew large at the bold confession. “I do not wish to give you a good impression. I am not nice. I simply do not wish to see you suffer.”

He led her down the hallway to the outside portal. Before he opened the pseudo-door, he handed her a twenty-dollar bill and a slip of paper.

“Get yourself some food.” He instructed like a cold headmaster. “I’ve also provided a number by which you may reach me.” With the sharp tip of his finger, he tilted her face up to look in his yellow eyes. “If that man continues to harass you, I wish to know.”

With that, he opened the door to reveal the outside.

When she disappeared down the block, he swore he never wanted to see her again, but in his heart, he knew it was a lie.


	5. Revelation

** Chapter 5: Revelation **

****

A corporate CEO was found hanging in his penthouse suite, an apparent suicide. His friends and family swore he showed no signs of depression, no signs of anxiety, after all, the man had a vacation to the Bahamas coming. Why would a powerful, wealthy, popular individual kill themselves only days before escaping the cold city to visit the tropics?

Erik watched as the news unraveled from the comfort of his own living room. He watched each family member, each so called ‘friend’, take a stand and insist to the press the circumstances for the man’s death made no sense. He enjoyed it, for he was the puppeteer who had created this magnificent drama and he knew what was coming in the second act.

When the police finally released all the juicy evidence he had ensured would be found, he watched as the family and friends slowly evaporated from the news. Nobody wanted to be seen on the side of a pedophile after all, and certainly not the brand of pedophile this man had been. His prestige and power had allowed a monster to walk among the earth, preying on the bodies and lives of helpless children. Erik’s only regret was not having had the opportunity to torture the man as he rightfully deserved, to cause even a small amount of the suffering upon him as he had on those poor innocents. What had been a job requested by a foreign solicitor to eliminate corporate competition resulted in the removal of predator.

_Unfortunate for him, I am the apex predator in this city,_ Erik thought.

With millions of dollars now spread out into accounts under a variety of different aliases, fanning out in a number of different countries he could easily cease accepting jobs if he wished. He could travel, perhaps purchase a cabin on a secluded island, devote his time entirely to composing. Yet inspiration was a fickle mistress, he could compose for fourteen days with little food and sleep, then run dry for years. It was difficult to determine whether he mastered music or if music mastered him. He needed something to do between bouts with the muse, or he would surely turn to bad habits once more.

He sensed her before he heard her. With no rain to obscure the scuffling sound of a slender form dropping to their knees before his window, he knew she was there before the rapping came upon the glass. Like a stray cat who had been fed, she was returning to him, completely oblivious to the wolf who’s den she was visiting. He wanted to scare her, to chase her away so she would never return, for she was the embodiment of everything he knew he could never have. It was painful to keep her near yet agonizing when she was away. _This is what will finally drive me mad,_ he thought.

She was standing by the front door when he opened it, clever girl had learned fast. Her body was shivering from the cold. December had come with its toothy, frosty bite. Her breaths were escaping as clouds into the frigid night air, evaporating quickly. In her ungloved hand, she carried the cheap guitar case.

“I’m sorry.” She said, “I know I shouldn’t keep bothering you. That guy is working at the shelter again tonight.” She explained, her lips quivering and slightly blue. Even with the warm coat he had provided, too much time in this icy weather could send her into hypothermia.

He gestured her inside as she mumbled a quiet statement of gratefulness.

When they emerged into his living room, she rushed straight to the fireplace and proceeded to warm her hands on the fire. With the golden glow of the blaze lighting up her face, she appeared as a mythical little nymph. _She looks so fragile,_ he observed, _so precious._

Retrieving a box from a cupboard beneath the television stand, he moved to present it to her.

“You had a birthday a few days ago.” He explained as he handed the garment box, immediately feeling the gravity of the gesture. _This was a mistake_ , he thought, _you look too desperate, she’s going to notice how utterly perverse this is._

“You bought me a gift?” She asked incredulously, “How did you know you would see me again?”

He offered a careless shrug, “I didn’t.” _I only hoped…_

When she lifted the lid of the box to reveal a set of warm, flannel purple and grey pajamas, she smiled. “I haven’t had a birthday gift in a long time, thank you.” She sounded genuinely grateful, truly touched.

He felt compelled to explain that he did not wish to insinuate more nights spent in his home, that they were to keep her warm at the shelter, but he wasn’t even certain what his own motivations were at this point. When she was near, it felt as though an electric current was coursing through his body, it was painful and exhilarating. This tiny little woman was galvanizing something within him. He loved it. He hated it.

She took the cozy set of sleepwear into the bathroom and emerged several minutes later. Her tiny feet padding on the clean, parquet floor as she approached. If he could record that sound, he would, simply to hear it echoing through his home daily.

Joining him on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her legs as she often did, he noticed she was fretting with her bottom lip between her teeth. Those vibrant, blue eyes were focusing on the flame of the gas fire, her expression lost in thought.

“Something troubles you.” He commented.

Nodding, she continued to chew on her bottom lip. “I’m almost done with that bottle you gave me.” She said, avoiding eye contact.

Behind his mask, he raised a brow. “You took your time. That is not an easy thing to do.” He offered a bit of praise.

“It hasn’t been easy.” She agreed. “You know what helps?”

He didn’t respond, merely continued to look at her, willing her to continue.

“I keep remembering the night you showed me your arms…” She said softly, “You must have used for a long time, to have so many marks…If you can stop, then I can, right?”

He nodded wordlessly. He stood and retrieved another bottle he kept stashed in a hidden panel in the bedroom. When he returned, he wordlessly handed it to her. Part of him wondered if she was merely here for free drugs, but how on earth would she know that he kept several bottles on hand? She looked confused.

“If you stopped using, why do you have these?” She asked

“I keep them for you.” He admitted, immediately regretting it.

Her face scrunched up at she read the label. “I thought you said your name was Erik, but that last bottle said Christopher Church.” She said, “This bottle says Merna Eckhardt”

He let out a sound that he rarely heard issue from his throat…laughter. “My dear, those bottles were not obtained legally.”

Her mouth made a little O shape as she understood his implications. “So, what are you, like a thief?” She looked around the apartment. “You must make a lot money doing it…because…”

“Stealing is a hobby.” He said smugly. “Truly, Christine, you ought to stop your prying into things you should not.”

“Is it really bad, really illegal?” She asked.

He hummed. “What if I told you I was a dangerous man, Christine? How would that make you feel?”

She worried her lip again, began to chew on her thumbnail. “I don’t know. You don’t seem dangerous; you seem educated, cultured, intelligent.”

He let out a short bark of laughter. “You do not believe that may make me even more dangerous?”

She huffed. “You’ve been so kind to me. This is like the story about the ghosts and the siren, you’re just trying to scare me.”

_You should run, my dear,_ he wished to say, _for I am the thing that goes bump in the night._

She stood and moved across the room to tuck the bottle of pills within the confines of her bag.

When she sat upon the sofa once more, she said, “I’ve been singing at the square. Everyone is holiday shopping and more generous this time of year, I get more money when I sing Christmas songs. In case, you were wondering where I’ve been…”

He didn’t respond, merely absorbing the feelings of having her in his proximity.

She continued talking, her topic changing. “These pajamas are warm, they smell like something familiar. They remind me of one of those fancy department stores with the perfume section.”

“I hope it’s a pleasant odor.” He retorted

“Oh, it is.” She replied, “Can you not smell it from there?”

“My olfactory is in need of repair.” He shrugged, glancing to see her scrunched expression.

“Is that part of your medical condition?” She blurted out, but he saw the look of regret cross her face once the words left her mouth. “I’m sorry…that was…”

“Impertinent?” He offered.

Sheepishly she looked down, “Yes, I apologize. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“You have quite the curiosity this evening.” He pointed out, pride forcing the words to sound smug, confident.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to know more about you.” She shyly replied.

“The less you know, the better it will be.” He calmly remarked. In his heart, he knew the words he spoke were the truth. Regardless of what lay beneath the well-crafted prosthetic face he wore, he was a ruthless and lethal killer, often walking the tightwire between madness and sanity. If she only knew of his original intentions to entrap her…Looking down at the healing slice running horizontally along the palm of his hand, so deep it had required stitches to mend it, it remined him of the moment he had walked into the realm of lunacy for a night.

She seemed to accept this, although he could not fathom why on earth she still wished to remain that evening. Her trusting nature terrified him; it was only a matter of time before she became prey to some cretin lurking in the dark. _The wolves will consume her out there, it’s a wonder it has not happened already._

They sat in silence for several minutes. She lost in thought staring at the fire, and he, gazing at her with a hidden longing. Her skin and hair was clean, shining with a healthier glow than it had when he first had seen her, evidence of her choice to ween off drugs. He knew the statistics were not in her favor, an individual on drugs rarely stayed off them for too long before relapse, resulting in overdose. It was a thought he did not wish to have this night.

Her eyes drifted to the large row of shelves running along the wall, holding a large collection of books and vinyl records. When her eyes turned back to meet his, he made a gesture to indicate she was welcome to browse through his library. She moved towards the shelves of vinyl records, neatly arranged by title and began to read the impossibly slender spines. Her fingers occasionally brushed them with reverence, and he could practically feel her touching his soul with that simple, innocent gesture. To watch her fondle his music collection was far more intimate that it ought to be.

Occasionally, she would pause at a title, make an odd face and point her eyes in his direction. This occurred enough times that he finally lost his patience. “What is it?” He demanded.

“It’s just that you seem like someone who would only listen exclusively to orchestral music, symphonies, perhaps opera…but you have Kate Bush, Radiohead, Joy Division, Nick Cave…” She touched the spine of one particular record. “Patsy Cline? It’s stuff that I would listen to, but it seems too mainstream for someone like you.”

He shrugged. “I enjoy music of all sorts. Do not be fooled, there are terrible operas, poorly composed concertos. There is beautiful music to be found in all genres, just as there is plenty that is ugly.” He spit out the last word like it was a curse, as though ugliness was the worst affliction in the world.

“I’m just pleasantly surprised.” She murmured. “I thought maybe you would be one of those pretentious stuffy music people, who listens to obscure sounds nobody’s ever heard of.”

“Who’s to say I’m not?” He shrugged. “There are hundreds of records there, plenty of those pressings are quite difficult to come by. Many are musicians who died penniless, their talents forgotten, unappreciated by the public…but not by ‘stuffy’ music people like me.”

She rolled her eyes and he inwardly smiled at the adorable gesture. Her body language was casual, comfortable, she felt safe. She sat back upon the couch and turned towards him. “Why Patsy Cline? It kind of sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“When she sings, she pours her heart into her voice. For a moment, I can’t understand what it must be like to have my heart broken by someone else.”

She fiddled with her fingernail, picking at the cuticle, another disgusting habit. “You’ve heard me sing?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“And?” Her eyes met his. “Do I pour my heart into it?”

“Would you prefer honesty?” He asked, to which she nodded wordlessly. “You sound dead, like someone has stolen your soul. It is one of the most exquisitely painful things I have ever heard.”

Her face turned beet red. “I don’t sing well..” She mumbled, and he was fairly certain she was going to cry.

“That is not what I said.” He corrected her. “I said you lack soul. Your voice is pristine, but vacant, completely absent of life and feeling.” He broke his gaze from hers and focused into the fire, how could he admit that her voice had enchanted him, bewitched him from the start? That is had caused a deep longing within him to scoop her up out of that alley, to bring her into his home and never let her go? “You have the most remarkable voice I have ever heard.” He admitted quietly. “Which makes the emptiness a tragedy.”

She made an angry huff, he had touched on a nerve. A sadistic part of him enjoyed ruffling her feathers this way. “What do you even know about singing?” She defiantly crossed her arms and pushed herself into the cushions of the couch, as though to bury herself from the embarrassment.

_Very well,_ the voice in his head said.

That’s when he began to sing.

It was a tragic sort of melody, wordless, but conveying the anguish he felt over the waste of her unique talents. In song he would covey to her exactly how she had made him feel those three days she had sat on his street corner and assaulted his heart with her glorious, lifeless voice. Her fingers reached towards him, as though she were drowning in emotions and was pleading for help, but he continued to barrage her with the vocal warfare, penetrating her soul with all the pain he had felt as a result of her entry into his life.

When, at last, he had reached the final note, she was a broken wreck, gushing tears and taking in deep, sobbing breaths. _Now, after this, she will not return,_ He thought with a mixed sense of relief and sorrow. Standing, he crossed the room to retrieve a tissue for her.

She sniffled, blowing her nose as the sobs began die down.

“I think you ought to go to bed.” He quietly commanded, pointing with one skeletal finger towards the door. He felt emotionally spent, he was done with all of this nonsense. Wordlessly, she left the room, closing the bedroom door behind her.

_Good,_ he thought, _this has gone on far enough._ Her presence in his world was overwhelming, affecting him in ways he had not known imaginable, awakening some lustful, eager creature within him. It was shameful the manner in which he had slaked his own desires to images of her playing behind the lids of his eyes, making him feel like the desperate, pathetic recluse that he was.

The next morning, as he escorted her to the exit leaving his home, he wordlessly handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

She looked into his eyes, there was a storm there, and for the first time, he was unable to read her expression. He had become highly skilled in reading the micro expressions of the human face. It had kept him alive, aiding him in detecting malice and dishonesty in the face of those he worked for. Yet now, that gift was failing him miserably. She looked hurt, but there was more in her eyes…was it revelation?

When she disappeared down the street, he knew he would see her again, that understanding did not taste as bitter as he thought it might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback always appreciated!


	6. Soul

** Chapter 6: Soul **

****

“I am not in the mood to travel to Hong Kong.” Erik flippantly replied.

The Iranian man sitting behind the desk furrowed his brow and leaned back into his ergonomic office chair, “What’s changed? You’ve never turned down a hit this big before. Particularly one with the trimmings such as this one, a powerful man with a clean-cut façade who trades enslaved women—"

“I do not need to supply you with explanations, Daroga.” Erik quipped, his patience growing thin. “Find something closer. I do not wish to be away for more than three days, if I must travel. A trip to China requires more time than I am willing to allocate at this juncture.”

The attractive man with light cappuccino skin sighed heavily, and Erik found he enjoyed drawing irritation from the tedious man. “You know I despise that nickname, Erik. Why do you insist on its use?”

“Because it upsets you.” The masked man gave an elegant, nonchalant shrug. Standing to his feet, he walked to the floor to ceiling window overlooking the city from the 68th level of the impressive modern skyscraper composed of metal and glass. “You’ve quite a view from this loft.” He remarked as he gazed upon the flickering lights of the city, his kingdom enshrouded by night.

“Are you considering a move from below ground? Tired of living like a gopher, Erik?” The Iranian asked sardonically.

“I merely live partially below ground, Daroga.” Erik squinted his eyes as he observed his reflection looking back at him from the shiny, reflective surface of the window. The prosthetic nearly made him look like a normal man, with sculpted, angular features and a handsome, Grecian nose. His nearly lipless mouth betrayed him. The yellow irises of his eyes glowed back at him, an odd feature of his physiognomy. He smiled to his reflection in the window, flashing a row of teeth with slightly pointed canines, but the smile quickly faded. _I look like a villain from some terrible film,_ he thought to himself with disgust, _I would never be painted the hero._

He had tried to cover his physical failings by attiring himself in only the finest tailored suits money could buy, suits which fit his long, spindly form like a glove. The home he had built was expensive and beautiful on the interior, filled with state-of-the-art appliances and designer furniture. It was all a sham, a ridiculous farce, a means of compensating for the grotesque visage he called a face. A face with skin so thin it had been called ‘untouchable’ by some of the most renowned plastic surgeons in the world.

He heard Nadir speaking in the background as he scowled at his reflection. “You’ve created a strange little fortress down there, Erik. With your secret doors and your booby traps. It’s like something from an urban version of an Indiana Jones film.”

Erik did not reply, he found small talk such as this to be unworthy of his time. _Not with Christine,_ the voice said. True, he would happily listen to Christine read from a refrigerator owner’s manual just to hear her speak to him.

“Find something closer, Daroga.” Erik sharply retorted and quickly exited the room.

He had decided to walk this night, slipping through the streets as easily as oil. There was an important stop he needed to make, a delivery which needed to be picked up. Walking the several blocks required, he quickly arrived at the back of the French restaurant. Passing the dumpsters, as regal as a king passing by his royal subjects and entering through the door of the back alley.

Nobody stopped to turn his way as he passed through the kitchen. The chef and cooks concentrating on perfecting each dish among the heat and flash of fire from the range. It was noisy, chaotic, but organized as orders were being called out.

He entered the office to find his man, Louis, working on a computer.

“For you.” Louis said, without looking up from his computer and pointing to a parcel on a table in the corner of the tiny, cluttered office.

Erik wordlessly retrieved the parcel and exited the office, leaving the restaurant without incident. 

His home seemed to welcome him with open arms as he effortlessly navigated through the narrow brick hallway towards his front door, deactivating and reactivating his lethal deterrents along the way. The living room was warm and inviting, he had insulated it well during his renovations. He instinctually glanced up at the small window, the one porthole he had to the outside world, a habit since Christine came crashing into his life. Oftentimes he wondered why he kept the damn thing, it could only be reached by standing on step stool, it did not afford that much light, that much of a view, he kept it covered with a thick curtain, yet he had decided to preserve it regardless.

Could it be that he was meant to see Christine when she finally arrived to sing on his block those few days? _Were we fated to meet,_ he wondered, _if so, why?_

He gently placed the flat, square parcel onto the glass top of his coffee table and sat upon the sofa. Perhaps he ought to have accepted the Hong Kong job, for he suddenly felt exceptionally bored. If he were to preserve his sanity, he would need to construct a new project, something other than Don Juan. The opera was tearing him apart inside, forcing him to delve into the most depraved parts of himself and regurgitate what he found in the dredges of his soul upon the white surface of expensive staff paper. He feared what would happen should Christine stumble upon his doorstep during a night in which he lay himself open to the treacherous influence of that music pouring from his black mind, when he slices himself open and pours all the lust and hate out in musical form, when he allows the monster to come out to play. He wasn’t entirely sure what he may be capable of. He would like to believe he would have more self-control, but he refused to test those limits. The night he found her in that dirty, dark alley, he saw the danger hidden within his urges, how close he came to crossing lines he never dared cross.

He moved into his bedroom, opening the enormous walk-in closet, its interior meticulously organized with fine cabinets and wooden shelves. At the far end of the space, he pressed upon the small trigger tucked in the inconspicuous place beneath a shelf with neatly lined and polished shoes. The hidden hatch opened in the floor and he descended down the stairs. The home he had built may be secure, but he did not trust it entirely. The office in which he worked lay underground, deep enough to avoid detection by scanning equipment, out of range of trackers. There were multiple escape routes, one for nearly any scenario. There was a network of tunnels he had come to use down below.

_Daroga is right, I do live like a gopher,_ he mused.

Sitting at his desk, made of glass and polished steel that wrapped around in a U shape, its surface cluttered with monitors, encryption equipment and other sundry devices of his own ingenious design. The networks down here were secure, more secure than those employed by secret government agencies and terrorist groups. He has accessed those networks and databases with success in the past, retrieving information or simply inspecting their security weaknesses.

He enjoyed operating this way, in the shadows, like a puppeteer controlling the strings. Dipping his hands in wherever he felt inclined, whether it be selling secrets, stolen art, weapons, or death. There was an intricate web of crime and he danced around it as effortlessly as a spider. With no country, no name, no political agenda to speak of, he was free to do business as he saw fit, picking and choosing what best fit his needs and wishes.

There were legal ventures as well, restaurants, real estate, architecture, dealing legally obtained art, a courier service company, too many to list. Many he kept separated from the criminal elements of his life, but there were times when the two worlds intersected when appropriate.

Hours passed productively, as he completed his digital work in the concrete bunker office. The room had not received any of the comforts as his home a few stories above. It would require far more of his time and effort than he was willing to give.

The tinny ping of a notification pierced into the space, louder than the sound of his rapid typing upon the keyboard. All of his calls were funneled through digital methods, through a labyrinth of networks and systems to ensure they were untraceable. Burner phones were often the norm, but for instances when he wished to allow an individual to contact him more than once, he gave them a digital phone number. He had hundreds of them, but he had truly only given them to a small select group of individuals.

His finger hit the ‘accept’ button. “Speak.” He spoke.

Over the speakers of the computer, came the reply, “Erik?”

He stilled, his heart tripping over itself. “Christine…” Her name came out of his mouth with reverence and he wished he could take it back, could strip that sound of adoration away.

She mumbled something into the speaker, it sounded like an apology. This woman and her ridiculous need to offer apologies, as though she were intruding, it baffled him. “I figured I should use the number you gave me instead of just dropping by…”

“Where are you?” He asked, his heart was thrumming in his chest, so loud he could nearly hear it.

“I’m at a payphone by the square.” She replied. “It’s hard to find a payphone these days, they only have one that works here.” She needed a phone. What would happen if she needed help, if she was in trouble? He made a note to correct that small error. “Could I crash on your couch tonight?” She asked with an airiness that implied she was rushing the words from her mouth. It made her uncomfortable to ask for things, he realized, she disliked confrontation. Not a good quality for living on the street.

“You may not crash on my couch.” He corrected. “I would never allow you anything less than the bed” _How much longer can you let her sleep in your bed? How much longer will you test yourself?,_ his inner thoughts nagged.

“Thanks, I don’t know what I would do without you.” She murmured, “I’ll be there soon.”

He disconnected the line.

_I don’t know what I would do without you…_ The words echoed loud in his head, almost deafening in the isolated silence of the concrete room. “She was just expressing gratitude; she was merely being polite.” He said aloud as he quickly climbed out of his deep hole and back into the warm confines of his elegant, modern apartment.

He knew she was at the window before he heard her knock, the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. His legs were carrying him down the passageway towards to exit outside before he could register what was happening.

“Is there a reason why your front door blends into the wall?” She asked in greeting as he opened the entryway, her voice shy.

“You would be amazed at how well it keeps the solicitors away.” He replied with humor. “Come.” He said, attempting to sound warm, but it sounded unfamiliar in his ears, unnatural. “I have something for you.”

He led her down the dark hallway, back into the inviting, softly lit apartment. She placed her guitar case and backpack by the door and settled into her usual place on the couch. While she got comfortable, he began opening the parcel he had retrieved early that night, tearing open the packaging carefully with a small blade.

Those blue eyes were fixated on him and he noticed how clear they looked this night, how bright. Sliding the items from the confines of the brown packaging, he revealed a stack of three vinyl records in white, unlabeled covers.

“What are those?” She asked with genuine interest.

“This is how you get your soul back, Christine.” He said, as he gently slid the first record from its bland cover and placed it upon the awaiting turntable.

There was the satisfying hiss coming through the speaker system, which surrounded the entire living room space, as the needle made contact with the black vinyl. There were a few small pops and crackling sounds, but then the music began. The sharp cry of the first note played upon a violin which moved into an ethereal melody, played with exquisite skill.

Christine let out a gasp and a startled, “Oh!”

Those small, feminine hands had moved to her mouth and her eyes had begun to fill with the shining evidence of tears which soon spilled over.

He stood there, watching her as she stared at the record player in awe, her body quaking with sobs. When the song reached its end, the record player fell silent while she placed her head between her knees and proceeded to bawl. Standing there, he felt helpless, but did not move to comfort her.

Eventually she looked up at him, her red, puffy eyes connecting with his, “I know that musician like I know myself. How?” She demanded incredulously, “How did you find my father’s work?”

“I’m a ‘stuffy’ pretentious music person, remember?”

Her mouth was agape. “I didn’t even know he had recorded…”

“They were not the easiest of recordings to track, but I have my sources.”, He explained evasively. “These were pressed over two decades ago, you would have been a child.”

“How did you know who my father was?” He could hear the suspicion in her voice.

“It was quite easy to determine, Christine. I’ve already informed you that I was required to check your identification the night of your unfortunate overdose. Daaé is not an overly common name, a simple search engine query provided all the information I needed. Finding the records took a few hours, but once located it was in my hands in less than a day by courier.”

She took in a shaky, shuddering breath. “I don’t know what I can say, how I can repay…”

Her swatted her comment away with his hand like batting a pesky fly from a newly baked pie. “Would you like to hear the other side?”

She nodded. “These are singles that he produced?” She asked as he moved to the turntable.

“Indeed. It appears they are his own compositions.”

“I don’t ever remember him composing. He always performed other composer’s work. I certainly never heard him play that song.”, she replied, causing him to halt his activity at the turntable and turn around.

“For some music, it can be safer that way. He may have tied too many memories to these.”, he responded gravely.

“My mother died when I was six.” She almost whispered, as though putting the pieces together. “Would that have been it? Would he have stopped composing his own music because she died?”

“Tragedy can either rob or gift inspiration. I cannot speak on the pain of losing another, but I hear it is quite traumatic.” He replied without elaborating too much. _Don’t let her in, don’t let her see how broken you are._ Turning his attention back to the record player, he effortlessly flipped the record to the other side and dropped the needle.

He kept his back turned towards her as the song played, hovering instead over the turntable like he was its dark master. Halfway into the song her voice began to pierce into the air, sending chills through his body as it began to mingle and meld with the melody in wordless song. She had near perfect pitch and tone, a gift so few had, but it was the spark he heard there in her voice. For a brief moment, he heard her soul and the weight of it all nearly crushed him. If his ears could bleed from beauty, they would be. When she inserted life into her voice, it was magnificent to behold. Christine’s voice was forged to compliment his, the implication was far too great and suddenly he had never been more terrified.

When silence fell upon them once more, with only the popping of a record that had reached its end, he was overcome with the heavy weight of fear. What did this all mean?

Thankfully she broke the silence, cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. “My father wrote that for my mother.” She said with a confidence he had not heard from her before. “She was his whole world.”

He needed to flee, these emotions he was beginning to feel were far too much, the burden too great. She was so close, too close, and all he could think to do was reach out and pull her tight to himself. He did not. He stood still, his back still turned towards her and merely replied, “He must have loved her a great deal, it is evident in the music.” Turning towards her, he offered her a weak smile. “Let us save the rest for another night.”

She nodded. It must have been overwhelming for her as well, only for different reasons.

“I’m still using less.” she announced unprompted, “Some days I want to give in, but I think my father is watching me, I think he wants to help me get well.” She looked up at Erik, “Sometimes I wonder if he sent you to be my angel.”

He nearly choked. An Angel, indeed. Perhaps he would be a biblically accurate angel, which are terrifying to behold, so frightening in their appearance they must first announce their presence with, _‘Be not afraid’._ No, if anything he was a demon, or at least, that is what his mother used to tell him. He did not believe in such nonsense, did not concern himself with matters of heaven or hell. Yet if hell existed, he was certain where he would be traveling once he left this earthly plane…

“Do not place such a heavenly title on my head, Christine.” He replied smoothly, “I am merely a man who found you in an alley.” He glanced down at the slice on the palm of his hand which had healed nicely, leaving a thick, raw scar. It was his permanent reminder of the night he nearly kidnapped and imprisoned the poor woman, who had been a stranger. _Things would be so different if you had…_

They sat together for a couple more hours as she told him stories about her father, about her childhood. There had been a lot of traveling, uprooting from one town to the next. She spoke of her troubles fitting in at school. “I was always the new kid, it was easy to get picked on” She said, “At a certain point, I stopped making friends because I knew we were just going to move again. Maybe that’s why I still haven’t made friends in this city…except you, we’re friends, right?”

All he could do was nod in disbelief. _She’s too trusting,_ he thought, _I ought to tell her how evil I truly am, just to show her how dangerous the world is._

When at long last, she went to bed, shuffling off to his bedroom in the flannel pajamas he purchased her, he opened his laptop to find an alert. Daroga had found him something closer.

_Three day, round trip. 500,000,_ was the entirety of the message.

He would leave town for a few days.


	7. Shattered

** Chapter Seven: Shattered **

****

His trusted pilot was awaiting him when he approached the sleek jet propped upon the runway of the small private airport located a few dozen miles outside of the city. Owning his own jet was a necessity. It was more private, secure. Public airline services, even first class, were far too crowded, there was too much security, too many opportunities to be noticed. Even with his realistic prosthetic mask hybrid, he did not manage to avoid every quizzical stare. Thus, he made the costly choice to own his own jet capable of international travel. He could travel anywhere in the world on it, so long as the proper refueling stops were made along the way.

“Ready for take-off when you are.” His pilot informed him. The man was nothing, if not professional, paid handsomely to tolerate the mad whim of someone as unpredictable as Erik. They had flown to countless destinations together, while speaking very little to one another. Friends were not a luxury that a man like Erik was entitled to, not even like-minded individuals who also preferred a life of anonymity.

Daroga tried to insert himself into the role of a friend, Erik wasn’t quite sure why. What could the Daroga possibly gain from a friendship with someone as cold and ruthless as he? Over the years, Erik had felt a slight softening towards the Iranian who had displayed the upmost loyalty and dedication. Together, the two had weathered a great many storms, walked through gunfire, escaped impossible situations and experienced near death with one another. If he truly thought too hard about the subject, he would have to begrudgingly admit the Daroga was indeed a friend. Is not a friend someone who will stand by you during the darkest of nights, the most arduous of trials?

When he had informed Christine of his trip, he felt the nagging inkling of some terrible premonition. What if she required him? What if she encountered trouble while he was away? It was baffling how this woman had become tethered to him. It was difficult to decide whether she was a blessing or a cancer, there to heal him or make him ill.

_‘I’m going away for three days,’_ he had told her that morning.

_‘What will you be doing?’,_ she had asked with sincere interest.

_‘I cannot tell you.’,_ he had calmy replied _._

_‘Are you a spy or something?’,_ She teased, but he could hear the small threads of a serious question in her query.

_‘Do I look like a man who blends in well?’,_ He had asked with mock levity. He had handed her a new phone, _‘This is a prepaid phone, you may use it to contact me if you require anything.’_ He had also handed her a prepaid credit card for use at a hotel. _‘Get a room somewhere nice, not one of those bedbug infested crack dens, understand?’_

She had tried to give it back to him, insisting she did not need any of it, but he refused to take the items back. _‘Why are you helping me?’_ She asked helplessly.

_‘I do not know.’,_ he muttered the reply. He himself was unsure of his motivations, of the reasons he felt so inclined to open his door for her repeatedly, to let her into his private space. The feelings he had the night in the alley were the product of madness, nothing more, he was sure of it. Why, then, did he feel possessive, needy, hungry for this woman?

Thirty thousand feet in the air, he sat in the empty cabin of his modern jet staring at the fluffy, ruffled white clouds below. His hands reached up and removed his mask and he leaned his face towards the window to allow the sun to shine in upon his skin. For a moment, this indulgence allowed him the pleasure of feeling, as a man who did not have the need to hide. At times he wondered if his face was not his greatest flaw, but rather his lifestyle he had built as a result.

He shook his head to clear the brew of thoughts. _Stop psychoanalyzing yourself, you know you will loath what you discover._

The jet touched down to its destination several hours later, the wheels making contact on the other side of the country. His car was waiting for him when he arrived, a black Mercedes Sprinter van with the back customized to his specifications. A virtual home on wheels with nothing more than a desk and a hard cot in which to lay upon.

Thirty minutes later, he was parking in an underground parking structure across the street from the residence of his mark. Ducking into the back of the van, he began to set up shop in the windowless confines of the vehicle. The hard carry-on suitcase he brought with him was unzipped to reveal the three laptops and surveillance equipment required for this job. One other item was placed within the suitcase, a t-shirt left behind by Christine at his apartment. He placed it against his face and breathed in. It smelled like her sweat, but it was sweetest thing he had ever inhaled.

He got to work, hopping and skipping from network to network seamlessly as he began his task of accessing the surveillance system of the expensive residential building his target lived within. He had designed a custom program which allowed him to piggyback on wireless networks, jumping from one to the other randomly, essentially leaving an untraceable trail. He was a digital ghost.

The fruitful gains of his hack displayed on his screen, the feed from the security cameras of the target’s building, most importantly the camera within his hallway.

Martin Vernard was an affluent philanthropist who held a large swath of the stock in a major biotech company which specialized in advancements in gene therapies for diseases. On the outside, Mr. Vernard was a cultured, well-respected, prominent member of the community. He operated a foundation which aided in helping sick underprivileged children in need of organ transplants receive the organs they needed.

The community heralded him as a hero, but Mr. Vernard was a wolf in saint’s clothing.

Martin Vernard had been involved in a despicable underground operation which robbed organs from undocumented immigrants who had entered the country in the hopes of fleeing their war-torn countries, but sometimes they also lifted unsuspecting citizens off the street. Most of the organs were placed on the black market for profit, while some went to children in his foundation to maintain his nice, shiny charitable front. It was the sort of duplicity which Erik could not stand.

The job had come through from Nadir, who had been originally hired to find a missing girl. Nadir was an excellent locator, when the bereaved father sought to find where his daughter had disappeared, Nadir followed the nearly impossible trail back to Mr. Vernard. Once he had informed the father of his findings, he recommended Erik’s services. It was assigned to Erik to seek the vengeance on behalf of the client.

Unfortunately for Mr. Vernard, his operation had murdered and looted the organs of the wrong individual, the daughter of a prominent member of a Russian cartel with money to burn. Erik had no qualms accepting the money from a group who received their money through illegal means. They were often the safest jobs to accept, for who would trust the word of criminals? Even if the law picked up his scent, he had foolproof escape routes for nearly every scenario, not only for himself, but Nadir as well.

Erik sat and patiently monitored Mr. Vernard’s movement for nearly twenty-four hours, listening in on his phone calls, receiving copies of his text messages, watching his online activity in real time and keeping watch on his residential activity. It was essential to have a clear picture of a target’s schedule to avoid any surprises. Typically, Erik allowed himself a week of surveillance before finishing the job, sitting low in the grass like a rattlesnake watching a mouse until the proper time to strike. This trip, he did not allow himself the extra time, he was far too anxious to return back to his own city.

_Perhaps she is making you careless,_ he thought, _you are allowing this woman to make you weak, reckless. You cannot afford to grow emotionally attached._

The moment came the next evening, after the sun had dipped far below the horizon and the few stars in the sky that could be seen past the haze of light pollution had come out to shine. Jamming the security feed for the entire building with a virus that would take days to irradicate, he made his move to enter the luxury modern loft of Mr. Vernard, picking the lock with casual finesse, and waiting for his mark to return home.

Mr. Vernard had the worst taste in art and furniture, as though he could not decide on a proper motif for design. Erik was not sure what crime was worse, the abduction and theft of the organs of innocents or this obvious bad taste.

He sat in the ugliest chair in the world, sitting like stone in the dark, awaiting his prey to walk through the door. An exceptionally boring couple of hours passed by at a crawl before he heard the sound of a key unlocking the front door. The man he waited for entered the room as expected, but what he did not expect was the inebriated, dark haired woman hanging on his arm. Mr. Vernard, it seemed, had made a stop by a bar or club and had brought a woman home with him.

_This is why you surveil for a week,_ he reminded himself, _this could have been avoided had you not been so foolish._

The woman was a severe complication in his assignment, a proverbial monkey wrench in his plan. Never before had he willingly killed a woman, he held a code and stuck by it. Perhaps he was far old fashioned and antiquated in that particular respect, woman could be capable of evil just as well as men. Regardless, he certainly was not going to start by contributing to the death of an innocent woman.

There were only seconds to formulate his strategic attack, one that would minimize noise and time. One fortunate fact in this situation was the quality of the building in which Mr. Vernard lived. His loft took up the entirety of the floor and the walls were impeccably thick, offering a great deal of privacy.

Before the tipsy couple noticed his presence, he sprung from the ugly, black designer chair like he was forcefully and gracefully catapulted from its seat. The thin, slinky catgut with a hooked and weighted end flew from under his sleeve, wrapping neatly around the neck of Mr. Vernard to form a lasso which could be tightened. There was a time when he was a magician performing entertaining sleight of hand for curious onlookers, but when his enterprise turned more deadly, he came to understand how to incorporate some of those skills into the art of death. This was merely one of his many lethal tricks. With a sharp jerk, he snapped the neck of Mr. Vernard. The force of the bone cracking reverberated via vibration up the length of the taut catgut held in his skeletal grip.

The woman let out a yelp, almost too surprised to scream. Erik needed to quickly deescalate the situation. He had no intention of harming the woman. He could’nt use the lasso, the risk of hurting her was too great and he merely wished to incapacitate her.

Lunging forward, he gripped the startled woman and spun her around with her back facing towards him, he would cover her nose and mouth until she passed out, then he would quickly make his exit. The woman began to desperately claw out like a frantic cat in water, flailing her arms about and clawing at his face with her long acrylic nails. The edge of her fingers managed to grab the prosthetic and it flew off his face, falling to the ground. She screamed and he quickly held her tight, putting his hand firmly over her mouth which she immediately bit into. If he had a moment to think, he would have been impressed with her fighting abilities, but the moment was lost for her leg kicked up backward and struck him hard in the groin with her spiked stiletto heel. The pain was so startling that he loosened his grip and she squirmed out of his arms, turning around to punch him.

She halted, her fist never collided with him, for she was now seeing the full horror of his true face. The curve of her full, glossed lips made the shape of a capitol O and her dark eyes widened with a look of terror he was all too familiar with. Turning towards a sliding glass door accessing the balcony four feet away, she flew to the handle and slid the door open.

“No!” Erik cried as he watched her leap over the balcony railing. Mindless with fear, she had not considered the drop below, so terrified she was of his face. There was a short scream and then silence.

Erik ran to the railing of the balcony to see the body of the woman laying five stories below in a pool of her own blood. _What have I done?_ he asked himself. For a moment, his mind flashed the image of Christine laying down on that ground, dead as a result from the terror of his face.

There was no time to waste, it was only a matter of time before police arrived. Someone would have heard her as she fell to her death. His eyes roved the floor looking for his prosthetic, only to discover with great frustration that it had been stepped on during the struggle and the firm interior beneath the lifelike silicone had been broken in several places. His skeletal fingers quickly gathered the bits and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

It was only when he made it back into the confines of his rented Mercedes Sprinter that he felt the full weight of the circumstances crash upon him. She had not meant to kill herself, he knew that, but he could not shake the despair in knowing his face had caused the woman to unknowingly plunge to her own death. He must have appeared like a monster who had come for her in that moment, he had just killed her date and she must have felt she needed to flee by any means necessary. Tears threatened at the corner of his eyes as he realized the reality that Christine would never be capable of accepting the ghastly appearance of his face.

His finger retrieved the broken bits of the prosthetic and placed them upon the table before him. The silicone had been torn and twisted, most likely under the stiletto of the woman’s shoe. All in all, the thing was thoroughly irreparable, even by someone as clever as he.

The doctor who had made the prosthetic was one of the best in the world, an expert in plastic surgery and prosthetic building. When the doctor saw Erik’s face for the first time, Erik saw something in his eyes that made his gut sink. After the humiliating and invasive process of making scans, imaging and molds of his face had been completed, the doctor had asked Erik if he would give permission to publish his unique case in public medical journals. Not only was his face unlike anything the medical world had seen, but his eyes as well.

_‘Absolutely not.’,_ Erik told the doctor with unmistakable anger for the audacity of the request. _‘I wish to have my records destroyed.’_

_‘I understand. Very, well you have my word I will keep this confidential.’,_ the doctor had replied, but Erik could read faces, he saw the micro expressions that indicated dishonesty.

He had kept tabs on the digital behavior of the doctor and was not surprised when I found the doctor was ready to submit a full manuscript along with all the images of his face. The doctor was preparing to expose Erik to the entire world after he had expressly forbidden it. It was a betrayal so complete that he could feel it in his very bones.

So, he killed the doctor and scrubbed every digital trace that he could find that tied to his face.

There were other methods of obscuring his face. Glued prosthetics with makeup were always an option, but the glue irritated his thin skin, and he found the constant removal and reapplication to be quite terrible. He had developed an infection once by using them too often.

He sighed. _Back to that odious mask._

It was time to get out of this god forsaken city and return home.


	8. Bruised

** Chapter Eight: Bruised **

****

The temporary mask he had lifted from the costume section of a theatre shop was genuinely terrible, growing damp inside with each breath he took. His prosthetic had been purposefully designed not to accumulate condensation; its nose acted much like a real, biological one. This pitiful piece of black plastic on his face was ill-fitting, the eyeholes cut into his skin. The mask he kept at home was better designed, not nearly as perfect as his false face, but it was certainly higher quality than this sorry excuse for a facial covering.

His phone began to vibrate in his pocket at he drove home from the private airport outside of town. Despite his tinted windows and the late hour of the evening, he still took backstreets and alleys, attempting to avoid authorities from noticing a man wearing a black mask behind the wheel of the car; it would be far too suspicious. Stopping his matte black Tesla in the middle of the alley, he reached into his pocket and opened the burner phone.

“Yes.”, he spoke into the receiver.

“Erik.” Her voice was like a blessing, but he heard the distress in that single worded sentence.

“Christine. What’s wrong?”, he gently demanded.

“Please, is it okay if I come over?”, she asked, and he could hear the quiver in her voice and the tears which she fought back. “I’m a block away from your place.”

“I will be home in five minutes.”, he told her. “Wait for me.”

Flipping the phone closed, he tucked it back into his pocket. This phone in particular was reserved for her, it was the longest he had ever held onto a device. Usually, they lasted a whole of a day, before he had no use of them, and they were broken and sent to a landfill. Putting the car back into drive, he quickly made the short trip to the secure garage on the backside of his building.

She was waiting for him when he finally found himself at this front door, her body bundled in the warm black winter coat and scarf. Her eyes looked at him, then were quickly averted. Inwardly, he cursed, realizing how ridiculous he must look in a plain, plastic black Halloween mask. If she had thought him odd before, she certainly did so now. There was something more to her demeanor that concerned him. She was worrying her lip, chewing on it like it was the only thing preventing her from crying.

He ushered her inside and quickly latched the door.

“You are upset.”, he commented as they made their way to his apartment, to which she did not reply. The door to his apartment obeyed its masters command, opening with little effort. A trick utilized by carrying a small fob which triggered a sensor and unlocked in his presence.

The backpack and guitar case she carried were set by the door. He offered to take her coat and scarf, but she seemed content to surrender only her coat. It was peculiar behavior, causing his suspicions to grow. As she sat at her usual place on the sofa, he tried to evaluate her behavior. She did not seem overly intoxicated, or under the influence, which made her demeanor more perplexing.

With a flip of a dial, he ignited the gas fire, allowing her to warm up.

“Your mask is different.”, she said, quickly looking at his face only to immediately look away.

“Ah, yes. Give me one moment.”, he replied, crossing into his bedroom, he entered his walk-in closet and closed the door behind him. His hands flew to the drawer with his old mask inside. Black, but made of a far superior material, with a custom fit, and a lining which prevents chafing. Quickly, he swapped the cheap mask for the new one and returned to the living room.

“You don’t need to wear a mask.”, she said quietly, “I’m not going to stare at you or whatever.”

He gave a sad chuckle, “You would certainly stare, my dear. I am afraid you can never see the face of Erik. Will you tell me why you are so troubled?”, he asked as he sat on the far end of the sofa.

Her eyes remained fixated on the flames and she adamantly shook her head. She looked so unbelievably tired, drained, as though she had encountered a vampire who had stolen her life force. Something dreadful had happened and he was determined to know what.

“It may help to talk about it, Christine.”, he gently spoke, as though soothing a crying child. Her hand tentatively touched the scarf, as though to ensure it was in place. It was a gesture he was familiar with. How many times had he done the same with the mask on his face? There was definitely something hidden beneath the scarf.

“What are you hiding?”, he asked softly, and she responded by looking into his eyes pleadingly, silently begging him not to make her say. With one skeletal hand, he reached forward and carefully pulled the fine woolen material of the scarf down to reveal a hideous black and blue bite mark. A thousand images flew into his head of scenarios in which she could have obtained such a terrible injury. “Christine, how did this happen?”

“Please don’t make me say.”, she breathed desperately, her words were filled with fear and shame.

Leaning back, he began to realize he was far out of his depth here, but he knew of someone who could help. Quickly, he made a decision to bring another individual into the equation. It seemed very radical and desperate, but he needed to know what had happened to his little dove.

“Christine, I’m going to take you someplace.”, he spoke decisively, “I’ll need you to trust me.”

She seemed incredibly confused but nodded in agreement. He extinguished the gas to the fire and offered her a hand to assist her from the couch. It was a gesture most perform all the time, the offering of one’s hand, but for him it felt entirely out of character. When her small hand went into his, he melted, his heart turning to liquid in his chest.

After bundling her back up into her winter coat, they exited his apartment, leaving her bag and guitar behind. Together they walked towards the back end of his building, towards the interior door which accessed the garage. The motion detecting light ignited, illuminating the large, clean interior space of the garage.

“You have a beautiful car.”, she mumbled dumbly as he made his way around to the passenger side door and opened it for her, as though she were trying to fill the awkward silence.

The car’s ignition started the moment he sat in his seat and pressed a button, one of the joys of owning such a car, keyless ignition. Reaching up, be depressed the button to his garage entry and slowly backed out when the door had raised an acceptable amount.

“It’s so quiet.”, Christine softly commented, she was still nervous, and he knew she was trying anything she could to stay present.

He hummed, “It’s all electric.”, he replied, as though that would be enough to explain everything.

“How do cats know to get out of the way?”, she mused aloud.

“I worry less about felines than I do about people, Christine. Cats are far smarter than humans. I prefer animals to people.”, he glanced over to see that had earned him a weak smile.

Several minutes passed by before she broke the silence

“Where are we going?”, she asked as she watched out the window at the people passing by.

“I’m taking you to see an acquaintance with whom you may be more comfortable speaking with.”, he replied, although even he was not certain if this was appropriate. Would she truly be more comfortable speaking with another woman about what had happened to her? Would she open up and reveal the origin of the bite on her neck with a member of the same sex? It begged to be seen, but, regardless, they were now pulling into the alley of their destination.

When he opened Christine’s door for her, he understood her confusion. To her, it looked like a nondescript alley. Only those in the know were privy to its secret. He led her to a set of steps and rapped loudly on the heavy steel door. Someone inside slid open the small door to the eyelevel observation window and narrowed their eyes suspiciously at him.

“Sassafras.”, Erik said, the password for entry, “I need to speak with Madame Giry.”

“I know who you are.”, the man behind the door said while sliding a few bolts and opening the door. “What’s with the mask? I thought you had a new face these days.”

“I’m not in the mood for pleasantries, Hector.”, Erik said dismissively.

“Madame is at her usual spot.”, Hector said, relocking the entry and sitting back down in his regular chair by the door. “She’s probably not busy, been a slow night.”

Erik guided Christine down a beautifully decorated hallway. It was one entirely in the Victorian Baroque style, with lush reds and blacks, and embossed velvet wallpaper and thick Persian carpeting. The lighting was moody, ambient, golden, coming from crystal light fixtures installed down the length of the wall. He knew how the entire space was decorated; he had helped Madame by designing the entire space from a gutted-out warehouse to an opulent brothel.

They entered a lush parlor, with velvet sofas and mahogany wood paneling. It looked as though it would be perfectly in place inside the home of a wealthy individual with a taste for the Victorian aesthetic. Erik himself had given Madame the very rug they stood on, a gorgeous Persian with details so immaculate it bordered on criminal. Above them hung a glorious crystal chandelier.

Madame Antoinette Giry was lounging back on a sofa, wearing a burgundy silk robe, with a book in her hand. A few other incredibly lovely, similarly dressed, women were also relaxing in the parlor, some were browsing on their phones, others sipping on cocktails. Madame’s eyes met his when he entered. Antoinette was a beautiful older woman; she had taken excellent care of herself and indulged in all the luxuries a woman can to keep her youth preserved. Most of her beauty was natural, but she had some work done, some fillers and Botox to keep the winkles away. She never touched her hair, though, which fell to her waist in all its dazzling silver glory, giving her an almost exotic quality.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Erik?”, Antoinette asked as she placed her book down upon the sofa and rose to meet them, her robe clinging to her long, curvaceous figure.

Erik turned towards Christine, “Wait here a moment.” He nodded his head towards the door to Madame’s office, silently informing her he needed to speak privately. Antoinette followed him to the door of her office and opened it, revealing an interior that was more modern than the rest of the establishment. The furnishings were more contemporary, with a glass topped desk and black leather furniture.

“What is this about?”, she asked curiously as she closed the door behind them, leaving Christine out of earshot.

“That girl.”, Erik began, unsure of how to explain. “She has been on the street for nearly a year.”

“And you wish to get her a job here?”, Madame Giry interrupted, an eyebrow raised.

“Absolutely not!”, Erik’s anger flared bright, “She is far too pure for your line of work.” Immediately regretting the sentence once it left his mouth, realizing how cruel it was, he tried to retract the statement, “I apologize,”, he immediately muttered, “Sex workers are not below anyone. I misspoke.”

Antoinette simply laughed, and winked suggestively “I understand what you meant, my dear. Why have you brought her?”

“Something happened to her. There is a mark on her neck, a bite…she appears traumatized. I thought, perhaps, you could discover what had happened to her. I fear she was assaulted.”

“Send her in, I’ll see what I can find out.”

While Christine spoke with Antoinette in the office, Erik waited impatiently for nearly an hour, pacing around in the parlor and making the lounging girls nervous. A man entered the parlor at some point, a customer, and one of the girls escorted him down a hallway where Erik knew all the bedrooms were located. It reminded Erik of the one time he had taken Madame Giry’s offer and purchased the services of one of her fair ladies…the humiliation still burned in his chest. It wasn’t as though he were impotent, but there was something lacking in the whole experience that did not arouse him. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful, but there was unfamiliarity. The entire encounter felt professional, cold, detached. After a painfully awkward hour, he redressed and left the room, thoroughly unfulfilled.

Antoinette emerged, approaching him alone. “She’s just having a cup of tea.”, she said, “The Keurig is a lifesaver.”

“That is revolting.”, he scoffed, “Tea out of a tiny plastic container cannot be pleasant. Did she tell you anything?”

“There is a man at the shelter she often stays. He assaulted her.”, she explained.

The lust for murder brewed in his heart, “Did she tell you what happened?”, he demanded, keeping his voice low.

“He’s raped a few women in the shelter. Christine has been good at knowing what days he works to stay away from him, but he was working on a night he typically has off.”

“She was raped?”, he breathed.

Antoinette shook her head, “Not entirely. She put up a fight, he bit her, hard from the looks of it, and she managed to make enough noise that some other workers heard and she was able to get away.”

“He works at the shelter…”, he mused aloud.

“Want to know his name?”, Antoinette asked indulgently, as though she knew full well what would occur once Erik knew the identity of the individual. “Brad.”, she offered without his response. “He’s been getting away with this for a while. When workers asked him what happened with Christine, he told them she had come onto him and he had to fight _her_ off. Can you believe it?”

“I gave her funds for a hotel, why did she not use it?”, he spoke aloud in frustration.

“She’s an incredibly sweet woman, but she’s broken. Perhaps she felt undeserving of your help, Erik.”, she offered, pausing she looked in his eyes thoughtfully, “There’s one more thing you should know…Brad likes to take pictures of the girls. Polaroids. There are a few of Christine.”

He offered his awkward gratitude for her help while simultaneously filled with a black rage that he knew would consume him like acid.

When he eventually began to drive Christine back to his home, he knew that Brad was going to meet a very terrible end. The Angel of Death would need to pay him a visit.


	9. A Dish Best Served Cold

** Chapter Nine: A Dish Best Served Cold **

****

A palpable, awkward silence filled the interior of the luxury electric vehicle during their return drive back to his building. His grip on the steering wheel caused the knuckles of his long, skeletal hands to turn white as his thoughts circulated with a chaotic brew of second guesses and blind rage. While he was pleased to have a name to go with his vengeance, he fretted over knowing the rightness of bringing Christine to Antoinette.

“How do you know Antoinette?”, her small voice pierced the thick stillness of the air.

Unconsciously, he gripped the wheel tighter, the rubber grip squeaking slight with the friction beneath the taut skin of his hand. He decided he could be honest, yet vague.

“We met through a mutual acquaintance.”, he calmly replied, his tone polished.

“That was…a brothel?”, he could hear the discomfort in her voice, could almost hear the underlying question she was seeking to ask. If she was not such a sweet, timid little thing, he was certain she would ask if he had used such services. “She told me you designed it.”

“I have designed many things.”, he responded, grateful for the new line of questioning.

“Your home. You designed that as well?”

“The interior, yes. I have no need for a flashy exterior.”

She looked out the window and sighed, her breath causing a small circle of fog to appear on the cold window. _Oh, to have that breath caress my skin,_ he mused longed.

“She said her daughter had been assaulted too.”, she almost whispered. “She said you were there for her family when it happened.”

Erik nodded, recalling the terrible details.

Daroga had called upon him late one night in a stormy fury, demanding Erik’s services.

_‘I have a job for you.’_ , Daroga said through gritted teeth, pacing back and forth in the modern apartment. ‘It’s for Antoinette.’

_‘The prostitute you’ve become romantically entangled with requires a contract killer?’,_ Erik scoffed, _‘Good heavens, Daroga. What have you gotten yourself into?’_

_‘You don’t understand, Erik, she did not ask me for this. I’m doing this for her._ _I love this woman, I’ll do anything for her.’_ , he had pleaded. _‘She has a daughter…something terrible has happened.’_ Daroga had fallen in love with the stunning older woman. How the two met was of no consequence to Erik, but he had seen how committed his partner in crime had grown over the course of a year.

_‘Give me the details.’_ , Erik relented with cool professionalism.

Antoinette had a teenage daughter, a sweet little thing named Meg, and she had ensured her daughter had everything she never did. Antoinette may have been a member of the underworld, but she was a doting and loving mother. Everything was done so Meg would never have to live the life that she had, a life of shadows and crossed lines.

Meg was a little ballerina on the cusp of stardom when an alcoholic stagehand named Joseph Buquet decided to put his filthy, barbaric hands upon her. Unlike Christine, Meg was not able to escape the full monstrous act that followed. The effervescent little woman was never the same after that. Dulled, darkened, sullied by the act of one odious little man. It was as if a crystal glass, pure and clean, had been dipped in mud.

Buquet made his exit from this world with a rope around his neck and a helpful toss off a catwalk. The police called it an accident and swept the whole sorry mess under the rug at the insistence of the theatre managers.

Yet while Buquet surely received his just reward for being such a despicable ogre, little Meg never returned to the stage. What followed were two unsuccessful suicide attempts and years in and out of psychiatric clinics.

_‘He robbed her of her very soul.’_ , Antoinette had wailed when he personally delivered the news of his job’s completion. _‘How does she get it back?’_

There was no answer he could give; his soul had fled long before he knew he even had one. All that walked the earth was the shell of a creature, not quite man and not quite a corpse. Music was the only thing that made him feel complete and it was merely temporary. One cannot sustain themselves with mere songs their entire life, and yet, he had done just that.

Christine had her arms wrapped around herself and Erik thought it looked as though she were trying to keep her soul inside. The thought of her life’s essence slipping out and into the ether was too terrible a though to bear.

The neurons in his brain began to spark in fanatical succession. A thought was forming there. It began to crystalize and take shape in the dark of his subconscious until it came crashing into the forefront of his mind like an uninvited visitor.

“You’ll not sleep at that shelter ever again.”, he spoke with conviction. “From now on you will stay with me.”

The words were out, and he waited for her arguments, waited for her to beg and plead with him to let her out of the car.

Instead, her retort almost stopped his heart, “Only if you take your bed back, I’d rather take the couch.” _She’s agreed_ , he thought with wonder.

“I will not agree to that, but I assure you, I will see to it that you get your own space.”

Less than a quarter hour later, he was opening a door connecting to the kitchen in his apartment to reveal an empty space which echoed terribly. The walls were covered in unfinished plaster and insulation, the floor was rough concrete.

“I had considered creating a music room in here, but I wish for it be yours instead. It will be a far more worthy use.”, he coolly informed her, while inside his body was stirring at the thought of having her so near all the time. “I will have it ready in a week, perhaps two…you will require your own bathroom…until then you will stay in my room. That is not up for debate.”

“You’re building me a bedroom? Why would you do that?”

He did not know. She was merely an obsession, a means to distract him from the monotony of his wicked little life. Wasn’t she? Would he not grow tired of her endless presence? His draw to her was borne of insanity, and yet he would be a fool not to see the telltale signs of something else, the softening of his being when she was near, the gentle way in which he longed to hold her lily white hand.

Towards her, he felt a tenderness he did not believe he possessed. He had combatted this unfamiliar feeling, but like a rat chewing through concrete, it had slowly gnawed through the impenetrable wall of his heart and built a cozy little nest with nothing but scraps. Now that it had imbedded itself, he knew he was doomed. He always believed himself to be a sociopath, but even sociopaths can love…that bit of knowledge was far more frightening than any other he possessed.

Yet the madness was still there, the desire, the lust, the marrow-deep ache that resonated in his bones at the sight of her. How could he endure it?

Instead of answering her query, he simply suggested she sit by the fire while he prepared them some evening tea.

When he handed her the piping hot cup of herbal peppermint, slightly sweetened with honey to obscure any off flavor of the sleep-inducing drug he had dosed in it, she murmured gratitude. Her fingers brushed his as he handed it off and it ignited something in his belly.

“Will you show me how to use your record player?”, she humbly asked.

He gestured towards his collection and allowed her the time to select an album. Her small fingers carefully pulled the selection from the tight confines of its alphabetically precise location and presented her choice, Kid A by Radiohead.

She listened carefully as he showed her how to operate the turntable, what buttons on the receiver to depress when turning on the surround speakers, watched her dainty fingers as they carefully slipped the vinyl from its transparent plastic sheath. He demonstrated how to use the record brush prior to playing the album and finally watched as she delicately dropped the needle at the start of the first track. The satisfying hiss of the needle against vinyl gave him goosebumps every time.

They lounged back in their customary places, sipping their teas, while ‘Everything in its Right Place’ filled the room. By the time the album had reached ‘How to Disappear Completely’, she had finished her tea, and was sobbing uncontrollably against him. The combination of sorrowful song and recent events had affected her. Unsure of what to do or how to respond, he patted her awkwardly in a sorry attempt at offering solace, but the heat of her body was penetrating his clothing and driving him wild.

By the end of ‘Optimistic’, she was out cold, slightly hiccoughing in her sleep like a child. He gathered her into his arms and carried her dutifully to his bed. Tucking her into the bedding, still fully clothed, he reached over and shut off the light. A disturbed idea entered his brain and he impulsively acted, pulling off the mask and pressing his naked face into her thick hair and breathing her in. _I am doomed…_

The drug was necessary, although a blatant and gross violation to her person. He needed to be assured of her lack of awareness for what was to follow. She must not know he was absent from his home this night.

Carefully closing the bedroom door behind him, he left to complete his mission.

It was ridiculously easy to locate his target via first name and location of employment. The man was everywhere on social media, not at all private about his comings and goings. Erik hardly needed to do much hacking to find the address of the residence, it was almost disappointing. There was no challenge, not even when he eventually found himself standing by the idiot, passed out on his couch while inane television shows played loudly in the background.

Just enough sedative was injected into the neck of the man to keep him from waking during his transport.

Scouring the apartment, Erik found the collection of trophies the vile man had taken from each of his victims. There were hundreds of Polaroids featuring dozens of different women hidden in a shoe box under the man’s bed. They were degrading, dehumanizing images. The claws of disgust sank in deeper when he found the ones featuring Christine.

He tried not to look at it too long, catching just a fleeting glance at her naked figure. Her body was beautiful but he hardly needed a photo to know that. Folding the Polaroid he held in his hand so the portion showing her naked form was hidden from view, he focused on her face. The image was just slightly out of focus and overexposed, but even with the slight distortion he could still see the fear in her eyes, could see the utter helplessness in her expression.

He could not wait to kill this man with slow precision, so much so that he was practically giddy. There were many sharp blades and skewers and needles, heat and electricity, all sorts of delightful little tools at this disposal. It was rare he was given an opportunity to leisurely torture a man to death. It had been so long…

Erik hoisted the unconscious body of his prey and made quick work removing him from the building undetected.

An hour later he was slapping the face of the man forcefully. Sufficient enough time had passed for the low dose of drug he had given to have worn off. The lashes fluttered open and the man’s brow furrowed, he looked around himself in the well-lit interior of the small chamber he now found himself.

“Ah, you are awake.”, Erik purred with delight, like a lion pretending to make friends with a gazelle. “Hello, Brad.”

The man began to panic, yanking at the restraints which bound his wrists and ankles, keeping him in the old, steel dentist’s chair. “Who the fuck are you? What the fuck is this?”

“Do you like it?”, Erik gestured to the hexagonal space with mirrors for each wall. “It’s a torture chamber.” He spoke as though it was quite commonplace to have such a room in one’s home. “I find it’s more effective when my victims can watch what I’m doing to them from all angles.”

Brad began to wail for help and jerking against the confining chair.

“It will do no such good to make a ruckus.”, Erik tsked, “This chamber is soundproof, nobody will hear you on the other side. You’ll only serve in hurting my ears and further irritating me.”

“I’ll do anything,”, Brad pleaded, “Please, you don’t have to do this. I didn’t do anything to you!”

Erik turned to the small medical table by the chair, which held a tray with neatly arranged tools by size. The cardboard shoe box of Polaroid photos sat next to the gleaming metallic implements of agony. His spidery hands lifted the box to show Brad. Giving it a small shake to illustrate its contents, Erik looked sternly into the eyes of his victim.

“These women would certainly not vouch for your innocence, dear sir.”, he coldly retorted, placing the box back upon the tray. “You have been a very busy beaver, but your reign of terror is over. You will not harm another woman ever again.”

“Please…I…”

Erik did not allow the man to finish before flipping the folded photo of Christine out of his pocket and showing Brad her face. “Do you see her?”, he rasped, his voice filled with toxic malice, “She is everything and you are nothing.” He reverently placed the photo back into the confines of his pocket. “I had considered having her face be the last thing you see, but I’ve changed my mind. You are not worthy to die to such beauty. Instead, you will have the honor of dying while looking at mine.”

With that, he removed his mask, displaying every inch of his horrid corpse face to the terrified man. Brad’s eyes grew large as saucers and gleaming with terror, while his mouth flew agape in a soundless scream.

“Now,”, Erik said, while picking up a small scalpel, “Let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to believe that a modern Erik would listen to all sorts of music, and who wouldn't have something as influential as Kid A in their vinyl collection?
> 
> Hope you have been safe and healthy! Thanks for the positive feedback! :)


	10. Raw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my little author’s note:  
> There are some pretty intense themes and subject matter in this story. For those of you who have been following it, this shouldn’t come as a real shock.  
> One of those themes is addiction.  
> This is a very personal subject for me, some of the character’s thoughts and feelings you see in this story have a personal basis. I struggled with hard drug and alcohol abuse for over a decade. I have 5 years clean and sober now. I got clean at home, but probably should have done it with professionals, but that was my personal choice. I also sought out the help of a 12 step program and still work that program today.  
> What I’m trying to say is this: Addiction is a personal battle and how a person gets clean is also personal. Some require treatment, others use 12 step programs, I’ve known people who have literally kicked opiates cold turkey and never looked back etc. There is no right way to GET clean, but there are certainly ways of STAYING clean that are better than others.
> 
> *Also, this entire story is done via Erik's point of view. I made this decision because I wanted to challenge myself and because I really think it adds a different dimension to a Leroux interpretation of Erik. He is very scattered, torn and all around damaged and it is really interesting to try to put myself in his head. If the story seems disjointed and angsty, that's intentional.  
> Homeboy is really struggling with just being himself.

** Chapter Ten: Raw **

****

Hours passed, until he glanced at his watch, speckled with a few small droplets of dried blood and knew he needed to return across the hallway to his apartment. Christine would be waking soon, and he should not be absent when she comes stumbling from the bedroom. He needed to wash his bloodstained hands and erase the evidence of his lethal deeds.

She was such a sweet, trusting little thing. Did she sense, subconsciously, the things in which he was capable? Surely a mouse can sense when it is in the presence of a viper. Perhaps not. Perhaps she was purely oblivious to what he was. After all, she had returned to him, time and time again. Was she as drawn to him as she was to her? _Foolish man, don’t flatter yourself,_ he scolded himself.

Glancing at the carcass before him, splayed open, organs exposed, yet heart still beating. The man had suffered enough for his crimes. It was time to bring it to an end. At this juncture of the process, Brad had gone delirious and had begun speaking in tongues, nonsense words really. It was a peculiar symptom of shock and blood loss, one that never ceased to intrigue Erik. It was as if the individual was nearing the other side and communicating to Death herself through a primitive, extinct language.

“The end has come.”, he said aloud, knowing the likelihood he was understood was slim at best. “Give my regards to the dark mistress.” With a sharp, unnatural jerk, he severed the head from the spine, shut off the lights, and exited the room.

He would return later to clean up.

He knew he was callous. Death did not affect him anymore. He had learned to live beyond regret, was unable to feel guilt for the lives he took.

An image of the woman, falling from the height of a fifth-floor balcony, flashed through his mind. He recalled the expression on her face just before she jumped over that railing, it wasn’t a thing a person could simply banish from their memory banks. That woman had done nothing, an innocent, no different from Christine. He knew he was at fault for her demise.

Perhaps he was not immune to regret, after all…that new truth cut like a dull knife. When did he begin to feel? It was a troubling new development, these new fickle emotions.

Blinking his weary eyes, he willed the haunting slideshow of the woman’s death from his mind and left the chamber to return home.

With the speed of an actor changing between scenes, he quickly rinsed his soiled hands in the deep, stainless steel kitchen sink, scrubbing the gore caught beneath his fingernails, and dressed into the alternative suit he had set aside. Removing his mask, he examined its matte black surface with an exacting eye and took a quick peek at his visage in the the only mirror he kept in the house, a tiny little thing that would not allow him to see his entire face at once.

Satisfied there was no blood to be seen on his person, he replaced the mask and went to work finding something to feed the woman who was now inhabiting his home. It seemed sacrilege to feed her food prepared with the hands of death, but he could not dwell to languidly on such macabre matters.

His pantry was pitiful. When one does not have a decent sense of taste, food becomes less of a luxury and more of a necessity. However, he could make crepes from scratch. _What if she dislikes crepes?,_ he wondered, _Perhaps I should step out and find some alternatives…_

The inane monologue in his head screeched to a halt at the sound of padding feet on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. His hands instinctively flew to his face to ensure the mask was in place before he turned around.

“Morning,”, she murmured with a faint smile. “I think I slept like the dead, I don’t remember going to bed last night.”

“You needed the sleep.”, he feigned innocence, gesturing to the black marble bar connected to the kitchen counter.

She sat on the high bar stool, looking terribly out of place in the impersonal, austere environment of his home. He busied himself by preparing her an espresso. The machine was one of the only appliances he regularly used in the kitchen, a kitchen that he had built primarily for the sake of building.

He presented her the tiny cup and saucer without any preamble, placing it before her wordlessly.

The silence was awkward and suffocating, disrupted only by the sound of her sipping the hot espresso. She made a face and he immediately understood he had erred.

“Would you like a different beverage? Tea perhaps?”, he quickly asked. He had never entertained a woman before, did not know the protocols regarding beverage preference.

She giggled. _Giggled!_ And the sound reminded him of cherry blossoms falling from the sky like confetti, it was intoxicating. “It makes me feel European.”, she replied dismissively. “I haven’t had espresso since I visited Italy when I was younger. I remember disliking it, but this is actually quite good. I usually drink lattes with syrup in them, although I’m not sure if that’s very cultured…”

He could have this conversation; this was in the realm of his understanding. “You have traveled to Europe?”, he asked with interest as he moved to create a batter with flour and eggs. Miraculously, he had brought a handful of perishable items home, on the off chance she would return to him. He recalled scolding his wishful thinking at the time, but now, in hindsight, he was grateful for the small lapse in judgement.

“After my mom died when I was a kid, we got a pretty decent settlement. It was a car accident, the guy behind the wheel was drunk and he didn’t see her until it was too late. My father put some of the money away and waited until I was a little older. When I was thirteen, he took me to Europe. France, Italy, Spain…We burned through the settlement money, but for a while we felt like the wealthiest people in the world, because we got to see some of the most beautiful things there.”, her fingers were fiddling with the small espresso cup as though she was not sure what to do with them.

He understood her discomfort, for he, himself, was also terribly discomfited. Never before had he invited another into his private space this way, not even Daroga. It felt…intimate, as though he had opened his nervous system for her to touch and play around with at her discretion. Yet he longed to ensure her own comfort despite the intolerability of his own feelings.

“I have visited those places as well.”, he mused aloud. Casual conversation was not his strong suit.

The conversation lulled for a moment, as though neither party knew where to take it from there.

“What’s your family like?”, she asked with genuine interest. It was an innocent question. There was no way she meant any harm from it, for she had no way of knowing how miserable his life truly was.

He began to artfully fold the freshly grilled crepe onto the slate grey plate, garnishing it with fresh squeezed Meyer lemon and powdered sugar before placing it before her.

“I do not have family.”, he replied, leaving no room for follow up questions.

“Oh.”, she looked down at the steaming, sweet breakfast before her. “I’m sorry.”, then realizing her manners gestured to the plate and murmured a humble, “Thank you, this looks really delicious.”

He batted away her comments dismissively and began to clean up the kitchen.

“Are you not having one as well?”, she asked between bites.

“I do not eat breakfast.”, he coolly replied.

She ate the rest of her breakfast in silence. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her only to avert his gaze immediately. _Stop leering at the woman like a lascivious old man,_ he told himself.

Finally, she moved to pick up the plate and carry it to the sink, but he stopped her, taking the plate from her nervous hand. Their fingers brushed and he felt as though he had violated her somehow. _Why all these feelings?,_ he fumed.

He turned to wash her dish in the sink but sensed her presence lingering behind him. Abandoning the plate, he turned toward her. She was fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt, refusing to make eye contact with him.

“Will you show me your arms again?”, she asked softly, still refusing to look up. Her eyes were cast down at the floor, as though she were certain she would be slaughtered for making such a request.

He sighed and removed his suit jacket, placing it carelessly upon the countertop and unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. When he pushed the sleeves to his elbow, he revealed the wreckage of his former drug use in all its hideous glory. The pocked marks and sunken veins were a testament to how far he had gone to escape the horrors of his own mind. It was an unsuccessful venture, for truly the drugs had only served to make things worse. All he had succeeded in was creating even more chaos and insanity for him to swim through.

Before he knew what was happening her finger had reached out and traced along the length of his worst vein, completely destroyed from all the abuse it has sustained. The touch felt heavenly and an unvoluntary moan exited from the back of his throat. He jerked his arm back.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked.”, she quickly recoiled, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It didn’t hurt,” he murmured with awe, his belly tingling with a foreign sensation. “I’m unaccustomed to being touched,” he glanced at her as he buttoned his sleeves with skillful speed, “What was this all about?”, he asked, suddenly feeling quite exhausted.

She looked into his eyes and he saw a strange resolve settle within her blue gaze.

“I have three pills left.”, she said, “I want them to be my last.”

The gravity of her statement was not lost on him. She was preparing herself for a battle that was hers alone. He couldn’t go to combat for her, but he could do all that was within his power to ensure she had the resources she needed for such a noble fight.

“What was it like for you?”, she asked, “When you stopped, I mean.”

“It was the hardest thing I have ever done,”, he replied. But suddenly he recalled memory of all the mornings he had watched her walk down the street, unsure if he would ever see her again, and he somberly corrected himself, “At least, it was one of the hardest things.”

She nodded and brought in a shaking breath. “I’ve reduced my using a lot, but it’s felt almost impossible at times, knowing I have that bottle in my bag, knowing I can take more if I let myself, but holding myself back anyway.”

It had been obvious that she had made great changes. When he first saw her, she looked as though she were approaching Death’s door, but now she had a flush to her cheeks and a spark in her eye. Her willpower was phenomenal, it was something he found he admired about her. Despite her recent trauma she was standing before him like a tigress warrior who was ready to spar her own demons.

He recalled himself, looking at his own face in a mirror on the last night he had used and screaming at his own reflection, _‘Deal with your demons now, or they will deal with you somehow.’_

Not all of his demons had fled, that much was certain, but he had managed to keep a needle out of his arm. He had plenty of other vices that he had funneled his rage and lust into, but he found they were far harder to quit.

This woman before him needed his help. He had never been needed like this before.

“Are you comfortable here, Christine?”, he needed to know if they were to proceed down this strange path together.

She nervously chewed on her lip and nodded her head, her fingers touched the ugly purple bite mark on her neck. “I feel safer here than I have anywhere else for a long time.”, she replied, he could tell by her expression she was being honest.

Was she safer with him? He was’nt certain of that fact, but he could no longer bear the thought of sending her away.

“It will not be pleasant,”, he spoke gravely, “If at any time you wish to leave, if you discover you would rather become admitted into a treatment facility, I will ensure it is done.”

Even as the words were leaving his lips, he had no idea what he was doing. For over half of a decade, he had grown comfortable living his life with some relative understanding of what to expect from day to day. And though every morning he greeted the day with the desire that it would be his last, he could, at the very least, predict what was coming his way.

He had lived in shades of black and white, but now everything was multicolored, and he was not certain if he was equipped to handle it all. She had shaken up his reality and thrown him into the realm of the unknown. Now, he walked along the portion of the map where explorers fear to tread. _Here there be monsters,_ it would surely read. She was the sea serpent that would gobble his ship lost whole.

There was no way she could possibly know the damage she was capable of.

“You’ll be with me though? You will not leave?”, she asked with trepidation.

“No,”, he replied. “I will not leave.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she took a steady breath which sounded more like a contented sigh. “I was worried you may have work, another business trip.”

“I am taking an extended vacation.”, he dryly remarked. He saw the frustration flash in her eyes, her obvious irritation at the secretive nature of his line of work but, sweet thing that she was, had not yet pushed the subject. “Have you still got that credit card?”, he smoothly changed the subject.

“I didn’t use it.”, she admitted shyly. “It felt like taking too much.”

He hummed and moved into the living room to fetch his laptop. Opening the sleek piece of machinery before her, he quickly accessed the browser.

“You need more clothing. Buy what you need. Not one outfit, several.”, he plucked a notepad and paper from the counter and jotted down an address. “Have the packages sent here, this is where I have all mail delivered.”

Her face scrunched up. “I’ve seen this place. It’s a French restaurant downtown.”

“Yes, I own it.”

She blinked at him. “Oh!”, and then she began to giggle again. _That sound!_ “I feel so silly, I had started to believe you were a career criminal or something.” He simply stared back at her attempting to hide the amusement from his eyes. When her eyes met his, she stopped giggling and grew somber, seeing something in his gaze that must have answered some of her unvoiced questions, “Oh…”, she quickly looked away. “It’s none of my business.”, she murmured.

What would she do if she knew the full reality of his life? Or even what he had done that previous night simply for her honor, simply because it pleased him to do so?

_She would flee,_ he told himself, _she would begin pounding her little fists against the wall begging for her release._

He quickly exited the room, disappearing into his bedroom and closing the door. When was the last time he had felt so exhausted? Life was agony since she arrived. Every part of his soul was left raw and inflamed, he had never been so vulnerable.

Removing the mask, he threw himself onto the hastily made bed. Smashing his naked face into the plush pillow, he allowed the lingering scent of her hair to fill the ghastly hole he called a nose.

While she was doing lord knows what in the living room, he closed his eyes and found himself tumbling fast into the arms of slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Thoughtful feedback always helps my writing. I appreciate those of you who have taken the time out of your day to leave some. :)


	11. The Fairytale of Acceptance

** Chapter Eleven: The Fairytale of Acceptance **

****

Everything he had learned about cruelty had come from his mother. She was proud, austere, educated and painfully beautiful, like a marble queen whom he was not worthy to touch. Erik’s father was not present during his childhood, nor did his mother speak of him, aside from the occasional snide remark. _‘Your father would have been appalled at the little freak he made.’,_ she would say with a bitterness that could put acid to shame.

He found himself back there, in the home he grew up, with the clean, wallpapered walls and the stark white carpeting of the living room. Carpet which he was required to tiptoe around, for his mother fancied the straight carpet lines which resulted from accurate vacuuming. A single footprint disrupting the perfect line configuration could result in a beating. Instead, he would creep around the rooms with hardwood flooring. He wasn’t welcome in the living room anyhow and nobody ever came to visit. Did his obsession with perfection come from her?

He needed to know why he was now standing in the oppressive walls of this dreadful place.

The house smelled the same as he recalled, of stringent cleaner and his mother’s perfume, a heavy floral scent than made him feel as though it could strangle his lungs. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and, looking to his left, saw himself as a child, only seven years old, standing before his icy mother. Every hair on her head was neat, styled and curled to perfection. The elegant angles of her perfect face appeared sharper by the displeasure she wore on her expression. She was dressed in a fine black designer dress and holding a carry-on bag. Oftentimes she left town for stretches of time, a week here and there, usually with lovers. She had a parade of paramours, but none lasted for long; he had always blamed himself for his mother’s ultimate loneliness.

With great trepidation, he stood and watched the terrible memory play out. He remembered this night with vivid intensity.

_‘Will you be gone long?’_ , he heard the child ask in the smallest of voices.

_‘That really is none of your concern. I’ll be gone for as long as I’m gone.’_ , she replied curtly, her gaze was unfeeling.

The child fiddled with his fingers. Was he always so pathetic as a child? ‘ _I’ll miss you.’_ , the child replied.

She laughed, and it was a wicked sort of laugh. ‘ _Will you now! Good!’_ , she mocked.

He closed his eyes to keep himself from seeing the next part of this terrible interaction, placed his hands over his ears so he could not hear, but he was given no relief. His eyes would not close, his ears could not be covered. The child was going to make the most audacious question of all and there was nothing he could to prevent himself from reliving this godawful spectacle.

_‘Before you go…will you kiss me? Just here?’_ , the child gestured to the top of his head. Only days prior, while breaking the strict rules of his mother and gazing out the window, he had witnessed a woman kissing the brow of her child. Until then, he did not know it was such a thing that mothers did with their children, the books he had read only discussed kissing between men and women. The seed had been implanted and he desired one for himself. 

The silence in the room became deafening as his mother processed what he had actually dared to ask.

She replied with a sneer, _‘Where did you get this ridiculous idea? Don’t you understand, you disgusting, rotten little thing? If I kissed you, I would die, any woman would.’_

_‘But I love you.’,_ the child whispered, his eyes closing tight.

She just laughed, beating him thoroughly with her fist as she did so, before sending him away to the dark little basement closet that served as his bedroom. ‘ _I should have drowned you in the bath when you were born!’_ , she had screamed down the stairs as the child huddled in the closet.

He never knew how long his mother’s trip was, he left before she returned and never saw her again. On his own at the age of seven. A street urchin who miraculously survived despite everything.

His eyes fluttered open, the smell of his childhood prison was gone, replaced with the familiarity of his own bedroom. Turning onto his back, he looked up in the dark at the rich canopy above the bed and sighed. Dreams were so cruel but could be illuminating.

Was he as helpless now as he was as a child? Was Christine to be his new prison, a beautiful thing to be admired but never touched? He could not imagine letting her go, but it felt like agony keeping her near.

A dreadful though arose; would he need to kill her?

He tried to picture what it would be like to murder her, to wrap his cadaverous finger about her beautiful pale throat and squeeze the life from her. The skin of her face would flush red until it eventually turned a morbid shade of blue. He could almost feel her phantom pulse slamming to a halt with the stopping of her sweet little heart.

The thought was immediately so terrible that he flew from the bed and found himself gripping the cool porcelain bowl of the toilet, retching violently into it. He sputtered and gagged, producing nothing but bile.

A knock came on the bedroom door. “Erik? Are you alright?”, her little voice came through the solid wooden door.

He splashed cold water upon his unmasked face, shocking himself back to reality and vowed never to consider such an unthinkable thing again.

When he opened the bedroom door, mask in place, she looked so painfully small. Her large, doe eyes met his in an expression filled to the brim with concern, it was unfamiliar to him. Nobody had ever looked at him like this before.

“Are you sick?”, she asked, her sweet brow lined with worry.

“Perhaps something I ate.”, he dismissed. “I will be fine.”

Nodding her head, she moved across the room to sit on the sofa. “I was worried, it’s nighttime now.”

He cursed under his breath. “I’ve left you for so long, I apologize.”, he murmured as he tried to catch his bearings.

“You must have been very tired.”, she sighed in lamentation, “I’ve taken your bedroom. I should be sleeping on the couch.”

“It is only temporary”, he quickly replied “You’ll need a comfortable space for the process you are preparing to make.”

Her eyes closed; her expression pained. “I took the last pill an hour ago.”

Gravity seemed to pull on the room with a significantly greater force, the effect of her words was palpable. He was still standing in the doorway of the bedroom, as though he were lost in his own home. _She needs me_ , _she has nobody else and she need me_ , he realized. This experience was foreign.

He found himself sitting adjacent to her on the couch and considering her with a grave seriousness. “Have you done this before?”, he asked.

She shook her head, “I just had the two Narcan experiences.”, she admitted. “And a couple of times I couldn’t afford anything for a couple of days, I was shooting it though and it was pretty bad.”

“This won’t be as extreme,”, he assured her, recalling his own experience, “You haven’t injected in a few weeks and you’ve been tapering. Have you had a terrible flu before?”

“A few times.”

“It will be similar. You will feel quite awful. I wish there was way to tell you otherwise, but I must prepare you.”

Her legs were tucked beneath her, giving her an even more childlike appearance, and he could see the stark fear in her eyes. It was a fear he understood, for he had lived it at one time. As if she read his mind, she softly said, “I’m scared.”

She had every right to be. ‘A terrible flu’ was sugarcoating it, the physical effects of opiate withdrawal could vary, but it was only half of the picture. He had intentionally neglected to tell her of the mental battle, how the mind will scream for what it is being denied, how unwanted emotions would come bubbling up to the surface like methane in hot tar. They could mitigate the physical effects, physical dependency was one thing, but addiction was more than just that.

“It doesn’t need to be scary”, he lied with great ease, anything to keep her calm.

“I’m afraid of the things I will feel, the emotions…” Her fingers flew to the bite mark, which was still appeared as a malevolent mark upon the creamy column of her throat. “Was it my fault?”, she her voice was a heavy fog of shame. “Did I do this to myself? Did I allow this to happen to me?”

“Why would you think such a thing?”, he was almost furious at her question. To his ears, it made no logical sense.

Her body curled in on itself, as though she could somehow disappear that instant. “I’m a drug addict.”, she shrugged pitifully, as though her illogical reply was explanation enough.

She blamed her lifestyle for what had happened. Looking at this waif of a woman, nearly curled into a ball on his large sofa, with a broken, tragic sorrow in her eyes, he felt a piece of himself break inside. _Comfort her, you coward,_ his head screamed, _reach out your hideous hands and hold her._ The tips of his fingers itched with anticipation and his palms felt clammy with just the thought of pulling her tight against him. She was sitting before him, bleeding profusely from her soul, and all he could do was helplessly watch her exsanguinate.

Instead, he rasped, “It is not your fault, it could never be your fault. The fault is his alone.”, he was growing too uncomfortable with his own shortcomings, his inability to offer proper solace. His insecurity was running through in his mind like a raging bull in a china shop. He needed to do something to escape this impuissance he was feeling. “Would you care for supper?”, he asked with a lightness that must surely sound bizarre after the heaviness of their conversation’s tone.

She gave him a smile, weak, but sincere and nodded. “I really don’t know what I would do without you.”

It was the second time she had told him this, not that he was counting. _It is just an expression of gratitude,_ he reminded himself.

“I find that I am lacking adequate supplies in the kitchen.”, he rose to his feet, “Would you be comfortable if I left you alone for a few minutes?”

In response, she stood and moved towards the large collection of books and records lining his wall. “May I play music?”, her fingers skimmed along the spines of the albums and he could almost feel it himself, like a phantom tickle moving up his back, as though the spines she touched was his own. Strange, how music can feel like such a private, intimate thing in just the right context.

“It is yours to do as you wish.”, the words sounded almost desperate as they left his mouth. He wanted to assure her comfort, but there was also a plea hidden inside. _Please, I am open bare, I have no protection against anything you may do._

He quickly strode to the door, relieved to escape the tension of the room.

“I don’t eat pork or beef.”, she said, as he was opening his apartment door. “I’m not vegetarian, or anything, I just…won’t eat those two things.”

It piqued his curiosity, but he decided to ask later about her reasons. Curtly nodding, he exited the apartment and went to his garage.

He placed his order as he drove the several blocks to the restaurant, demanding its readiness within twenty minutes and listed his specifications for delivery to his awaiting vehicle. The kitchen staff would have never seen his black mask and he felt far too raw to endure the shocked glances.

Instead, he sat in the interior of his Tesla, thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the bag of food to be delivered to his window. His thoughts drifted to Christine, how small she had looked this evening, how wounded her gaze had been as she confessed her own feelings of guilt for what had happened to her. He was confused by her logic, but he had witnessed her pain and doubt and saw the validity of her feelings. Death had claimed the one responsible for the crime, but it failed to solve anything. The woman in his home was still wounded. 

Would her experience play out as Meg’s had? The little ballerina could no longer dance, her love for the art had been crushed by an odious stagehand. She was unable to enter the theatre without traumatic memories replaying.

_‘It happened too close to the stage.’_ , Antoinette had said, _‘Dancing was her world and it’s been taken from her.’_

He turned over his hand and traced the scar running along his palm. At one point, he too, had considered something almost as unthinkable as rape. Would he have followed through with her imprisonment had he not seen the wild panic in her eyes that day? The number of lines he had crossed in his lifetime were countless, but what variables must come into play to cause him to cross the threshold into that sort of wickedness.

The rapping on the car window shook him from his thoughts and he accepted the brown bag through the lowered window, catching the confused expression on the face of the bus boy the parcel exchanged hands.

Music was trickling out of the speakers as he entered his home with his delivery of French cuisine. Christine was sitting cross-legged upon the plush Persian rug, her face in a daze as she listened to the sounds which resonated from the spinning black vinyl disc before her. 

He fetched a plate and cutlery from the kitchen and neatly arranged the contents of the takeout boxes upon the plate. It was an assortment of small, elegantly dressed dishes which was nearly impossible to transport from box to dish without disrupting their delicate constructions.

Carrying her plate into the living room, he placed it upon the coffee table, artfully arranging the silverware by its side.

“I see you have discovered Múm.”, he said, pulling her from her reverie.

“I picked it randomly.”, she confessed. “I’ve never heard of them, but…I wish I had.”

“They’re an experimental Icelandic group. This is the only album they have produced that I will own, it’s the only one I truly care for.”,

“Her voice is…”

“Haunting?”, he asked to her immediate nod.

_Not as haunting as yours,_ he thought. His golden eyes glowing down at her with strange longing.

She stood and turned off the record player and he gestured to the plate of food, which considered with a sort of intrigued wonder. They looked like tiny works of edible art.

“The only meat on the plate is quail and duck.”, he offered, gesturing to the two neatly assembled dishes in the center of the plate.

“This looks amazing, thank you.”, she shyly replied as she began to try bites of each dish, while he sat like some sort of creepy spectator. It was a gorgeous site to watch her do something as simple as ingest food. Every movement she made was humble, gentle, almost mouse like in an endearing way. Her eyes caught his, “You aren’t eating?”

“I am not hungry.”, he replied.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”, she pointed out.

“Pork and Beef.”, he replied. “Why do you eat others and not those?”

She huffed at his changing of the subject but began to absentmindedly stab at a neatly curled carrot. “When my father and I were traveling around the country, we stayed in a farmhouse for a few weeks. They slaughtered pigs and cattle, I watched it happen a couple of times…I still remember the smell of the blood when I see a hamburger. I know it’s silly, that somehow I can justify eating a chicken and not a pig, but…I can’t handle blood and the memories have always been there.”

_What would she do if she knew what you did just last night?,_ the voice in his head said. He did not need to respond; he knew the answer already. She would not be sitting so close to him if she was privy to that knowledge.

She was a good, kind, decent person who had only ever looked at him with anything save kindness, regardless of the mask he wore. Christine was the epitome of everything he was not and that made him want her all the more. He longed to know her intimately and completely.

Struck with the sudden desire to know more, he began to ask her questions about her childhood, a place with pleasant memories of her father. Despite her mother’s death, her childhood was still full of love and happy memories. Travel was a constant, which made her feelings of isolation seem normal. _‘When you’are uprooted all the time, it’s hard to make friends. Instead, papa was my one and only confidant, my best friend.’,_ she had said wistfully.

Some of her tales were full of humor and laughter, as she regaled a story about a pigeon who had become trapped in a motel room, her eyes lit up and she was giggling. He found himself smiling with her, he could feel her joy at a situation which she found to be comedic. The sunny feeling warmed his cold bones.

Other tales explained of the poverty her and her father had endured, a consequence of a musician living between jobs. She spoke of getting by on very little, of washing her clothing in the bathtub because they could not afford a laundromat, of eating nothing but peanut butter and jelly for weeks, of all the miles they had walked because they could not afford bus fare. She said she knew how guilty her father felt for forcing her to live in such conditions.

“Then came Raoul.”, she said softly with a sigh. “Papa thought he would be my golden ticket.”

His eyes briefly closed at the sudden discomfort that sunk in his belly at the mention of a man.

“Raoul was my first and only boyfriend, I had dated guys before, but nothing long term, not until Raoul.”, Christine said as she sunk deeper into the corner of the sofa she had migrated to during the hours of storytelling. “He came from old money, I mean, like, his ancestors probably owned slaves, kind of money. He was from New Orleans, but his family originated in France, they come from a long line of aristocrats. The kind that they would have beheaded during the revolution. My father was certain that Raoul was the answer to his prayers. He wanted a man to come in and save me.”

He didn’t say a word, only morbidly curious to how this story would play itself out.

“He was really sweet, very outgoing, the life of the party, all golden and bright. I liked him immediately, because he was always so sincere, but I always felt so out of place in his world. My clothes were cheap, often stained or starting to fray. When I met his family for the first time, I had a coffee stain on my shirt. His mother commented that I must have had a spill that morning…that stain had been on my shirt for over a month.”, Christine let out a sigh, as though the memory still brought shame.

“You should hardly feel shame for being poor.”, he pointed out as though it was obvious.

“At the time, it was hard not to. I saw the way his family looked at me, like I was a vulture who was coming in to feast upon their son. Raoul though he could solve all the problems I had with a wave of his magic money wand, but he didn’t understand how uncomfortable it made me feel. He helped my father and I pay for the rent on our apartment.”, she sighed. “It wasn’t just that though, there were other problems. He took me to the opera once, because his family has a patronage there and he fell asleep in the first act. It was one of the most phenomenal experiences of my life and my boyfriend wasn’t enjoying it. Raoul was really good at business, but he didn’t understand music, he listened to top 40 radio, you know, with autotune? He thinks Kanye West is the greatest musician who ever lived.”

Erik inwardly cringed.

“Anyways,” she continued. “He didn’t understand how important music was to me. Maybe I’m like my father, I would rather be doing what I love than living a stable life…”, she shook her head, as though she herself was still trying to piece together the puzzle of her own life.

“You should always do what you love, the rest will follow.”, he told her. “What happened to the boy?”, the last word left his lips with a bitterness and disrespect that he could not hold back.

“We broke up,” she replied with a dullness to her voice, “We were together for a couple of years until my father got sick. Raoul wanted to get married, to have children, but I couldn’t agree to his proposal and then, when papa died…”, her eyes squeezed shut, a solitary tear leaking out between the creased fold and rolling like a smooth glass marble down her cheek. He wanted to capture it, to place it in his mouth so he could share her sorrow. “I started to use the morphine he had left behind, the same drug that eased his pain when he was dying. I used it to kill my own pain. I grew distant and I broke up with Raoul, I couldn’t even do it in person so I did it over the phone, I was so afraid I would change my mind. I was so scared of losing myself in a shallow love more than I was of losing myself to drugs.”, she looked up at him, “Have you ever had to break someone’s heart before?”

He considered her carefully before shaking his head. Her question was almost flattering, as if he was desirable enough to have broken the heart of another.

“Did someone break yours?”, she asked, her brow preemptively furrowing in sympathy, as though anticipating he would answer in the affirmative.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, she was crawling into his suit of armor and touching his soft, vulnerable flesh now. He quickly gave a wordless reply with the shake of his head and simply tapped the mask as though it were explanation enough. A man in his early forties was confessing to having never known the agony of heartache, of having never known the pleasures of a romantic relationship. She looked at him with such pity that he nearly opened his mouth to scream, instead he gritted his teeth.

“It is growing late,” he said, “You should sleep now, you may be quite restless for a few days. It will be better for you to sleep tonight if you can.”

“You’ll be here if it gets too hard?”, she asked, as she rose from the couch, she seemed embarrassed for having garnered such a shameful personal detail of which he had ownership.

“I will always be here.”, he replied coolly as he watched her cross the room towards the bedroom. 

She stopped in the doorway of the bedroom and looked over her shoulder. “I would rather see your face than the mask, Erik. I’m not shallow. I'll accept you.”

And with that she stepped into the bedroom and closed the door gently behind her, leaving him to completely unravel from the force of her last words like unspooling thread.

He knew she was merely being kind, she was not professing love of any sort, but the mere implication that she could look at his face with acceptance was suffocating in its intensity. Not even he could look upon his face with anything but disgust, after all, there were no mirrors hung in his home. Daroga had been the only one to look in his eyes unflinching when the mask was not in place, but Daroga was also as immune to the horrors of death as he was.

He wondered what Christine’s fingers would feel like, caressing his naked face as she beamed up with him, a smile on her adorable face. A smile for him alone. It was a joyous image he carried with him as he later executed the unenviable chore of disposing of Brad’s body and cleaning the mess of the chamber.

Even after the macabre tasks were complete and he began his diligent work on the new bedroom, he removed his mask to continue his fantasies of loving hands upon his face. Imagining the cool air was her sweet touch and contemplating such a thing as being loved for himself.

That pretty fairytale carried him through the entire night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The album by Múm is called Summer Make Good. It is quite haunting. I’d like to imagine modern Erik would be into experimental groups like that.
> 
> (I love their entire catalogue, but that album is the only one I can picture Erik enjoying.)


	12. Make Your Choice

** Chapter Twelve: Make Your Choice  **

****

All night, he had been finishing the walls of the future bedroom, smoothing the plaster to ready the application of embossed wallpaper. Christine would need her own en suite bathroom which would require the addition of a couple of walls. His hands were coated in a fine layer of plaster dust as he meticulously placed the linework of his design for the room on paper. The space was adequate to accommodate such an addition. _Perhaps a custom marble clawfoot tub…_

It was the crying which snapped him from his visions of hand carved bathroom features. It filtered through the heavy wood door of his bedroom and floated to where he sat at the kitchen bar. Abandoning the pencil, which dropped like a dead soldier onto the countertop, he approached the bedroom door which stood on the other side of the room. Her sobs were raw, guttural, as though she was being spiritually split in two. Glancing at his watch, he took note of the hour. His productivity often resulted in a negligence of time; he had not realized it was approaching early evening.

His hand reached towards the doorknob, but when his fingertips brushed the cool metal, he stopped himself. The terrible song of pain coming from within was far too much for him to bear, causing his innards to twist and writhe. She was hurting and it was hurting him as well.

Was this empathy? He had not believed himself capable.

In the end he found himself frozen in place, hands awkwardly pressed flat against the door, with his head tilted downward as he processed this newfound ability. Why her? What was it about this woman that had pierced him so?

The wretched sound eventually came to a stop and he felt a great relief, as though a heavy sword had just been pulled from his belly. I was too painful to hear her cry, but even more painful knowing his inadequate abilities to offer solace.

His fingertips itched with some subconscious longing and he found himself gravitating towards the piano. It stood like an old friend who was ready to listen to his woes. Expressing himself was only ever truly possible through music, it was the only language in which he felt emotionally fluent. The relationship between an instrument and a musician was an awful and intimate thing. An instrument required blood, breath, the very beating heart of the person who touched it.

Perhaps it could be used as a means to console? He could not walk through that door and hold her as a man, but he could do so through music. Perhaps that could be enough.

The improvised melody came spinning from his fingers like he was weaving the notes on a loom into a complicated tapestry. The music was delicate, fragile almost. A single wrong note could cause the entire thing to crumble. It floated about the air like a sweet cloud of sugar crystals suspended in time and space. It was, perhaps, the most pleasant music he had ever crafted.

His whole world was lost to the notes coming from his terrible hands, his mind swept away in the throes of creation. He did not see her until she was sitting beside him on the piano bench and placing a hand upon his shoulder. His reaction was violent, as he was yanked from the universe he was creating in his head, his hands crashed upon the piano as he tumbled from his reverie. The beautiful illusion was shattered, merely because he was ill equipped to accept a simple touch.

He muttered an apology and quickly shut the piano’s fall board.

“Did I startle you?”, she asked in a soft voice. He knew she was looking up at him, so he drummed up enough nerve to glance in her direction from the corner of his eye. She looked anxious, almost panicked.

He did not respond.

“I’m not ready,”, she said, her voice breaking slightly as she began to fight back tears. “I don’t think I can do this. I feel so broken. Can’t I just try a different day? Please…I just don’t think I can do this.”

He sighed, the brand of despair staining her voice was an addict’s calling card. “You almost died in that bed, Christine. You would have died in that alley, had I not intervened.”

Her body was quaking slightly, he knew she was growing physically ill. “I’m afraid to feel everything.”, she wailed with an agony that blew through him like bullets. Putting her face in her hands, she began to sob again. “What would my father think of me now?”, she managed to choke between shuddering breaths. “God, what a failure I’ve become. I don’t want to die, but I’m so afraid to live, it all just feels so daunting.” She sniffled, dashing the tears away from her face with the sleeve of her flannel pajamas. “You probably think I’m pathetic.”

“I do not.”, he said calmly. “I find it to be good that you fear death, I did not.”

“You didn’t? Why?”, she asked, leaning her head against his shoulder. It caused him to flinch, but it went unnoticed by her.

“One has to get used to everything in this life, even to eternity. Between life and death, life seemed the least pleasant of the two options.”, he said without emotion, he did not speak of the coffin he had nearly purchased to place within his apartment, how he had considered death to be a sweet siren’s song. Instead, he said, “However, I already lived in a prison, and addiction was like being inside two, a prison within a prison. Stacked like little Russian dolls.” Even as he made the admission, he knew he would never truly be free. He would never shake his tendency towards obsession, never break loose from the shackles that come had from being a societal outcast, a murderer who lived on the fringes.

She did not respond to his bleak admission, she simply stood from the bench and announced she did not feel well and shuffled back into the bedroom, closing the door tightly behind her. It was a few more hours before she emerged again, looking like a beautiful, sick specter. It was near agony as she fell to her knees before him, gripping his pant leg like a desperate animal, and begged, pleaded that he release her to the outside world. Her tears could have filled an ocean, it was a wonder she had any left. Her cries were low, moaning, strangled sounds, as though she was pulling them up from the deepest parts of her sorrow.

“Please don’t cry,”, he choked, “It gives me pain to see you cry.”

He had found himself nearly breaking, ready to fetch a new bottle of pills he had tucked away. Could he not simply give her what she desired? Would that make her need him, and bind her to him? The thought was so tantalizing, so alluring. He found himself imagining a world where she depended solely on him, he, her supplier. She would need him, and he could monitor what she used, it could be the only way she may he truly his. It seemed such a simple thing, to give in to her wishes and become her twisted savior.

Yet he denied her, and it was quite possibly one of the hardest things he had ever done.

She stood and gave him a furious look, her hands balled into fists as she stomped back into the bedroom and slammed the door in a fit of rage, leaving him standing in the center of the room feeling helpless.

A half hour later she emerged once more. He sat stony and silent upon the sofa. Her countenance was different, she sat next to him and began to flirt. He was utterly baffled by this new behavior as she began to paw at him like a little cat begging for treats. She continued her pleas for release or relief, and there was something else insinuated between her touches. It was a level of desperation that he did not consider possible for someone so sweet, yet here it was, presented before him, in all its hideous glory.

Foolish, sick man that he was, he found himself considering such a thing!

Yet again he denied her. Each time it felt like he was disemboweling himself, the rejection and disappointment pointed in his direction nearly destroyed him. He felt his will cracking each time.

She ran into the bedroom again, neglecting to close the door behind her and rushed to vomit into the toilet. He followed her into the room and stood in the bathroom doorway as she lay, curled up in a fetal position on the bathroom floor, wailing like a wounded feline.

Withdrawal had taken his sweet little dove and turned her into a monster. He would give anything to have the same woman who had only a night prior declared herself ready for this intense process, who had vocalized her distaste for his mask, who had said the words ‘ _I’ll accept you’._

He found himself entering his walk-in closet, shutting tight the door behind him and accessing the secret panel where he kept the drugs. He was holding the bottle in his skeletal hand. It spoke of possibility, but also of death and destruction. Would he rather a living, breathing woman or an automaton? It felts as though he were damned regardless of his choice. Why did she choose his street corner to sing!? Why him! She had brought nothing but conflict and pain into his life, all dressed up in a pretty little package disguised as hope.

The chalky white pills seemed to stare back at him from their little orange plastic prison. They taunted him and his weakness.

He held his palm up into the light, to look at the long scar which glowed brightly upon it.

_Addiction makes monsters of us all…_

And in that moment, he wept, for he had made his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been beyond touched by the support I have received for this story.   
> Some of you have even gone so far as to share a bit about your own personal stories, or have spoken of loved ones whom you have seen struggle.   
> I did not realize this would resonate with others the way that it has.
> 
> Thank you for those who have read, followed and given thoughtful feedback.


	13. The Grasshopper and the Scorpion

** Chapter Thirteen: The Grasshopper and the Scorpion **

****

The name on the translucent orange medicine container glared back at him, the ink almost ominous as he considered the peculiar last name of the patient. The man to whom the name belonged must have surely been the subject of ridicule by his childhood peers, for Grasshopper was certainly a name which would have stood out among them. He shuddered to think of what children would have said about _him_ , for he had something far more obvious to bully than a strange last name…

It was a substantial bottle of high-grade opiates, certainly better than whatever fentanyl laced concoction she had been buying off the street from those disreputable dealers. Its large, white pills almost sang to him, like little angels trapped in a vial, begging him to release them from their plastic prison.

_Save us, take us, set us free and we shall return the favor!,_ they seemed to sing.

It had been so long since he felt the euphoric rush of drugs in his system, the obliviousness they had given him from all his woes…until they stopped doing their job sufficiently.

Shaking his head, he shook the desire to ingest them from his mind. He could play out that scenario to the end and he knew where it would lead him, using copious amounts that still left him feeling miserable. He would still be alone but broken and in more pain than ever before.

His face was still damp with the tears he had shed, causing his mask to feel suffocating as it clung to the skin of his dead face. Through the door of his closet, he could still hear her pitiful wailing and it was torture. She was not ready, she had said as much.

He was willing to admit to himself that he was addicted to her now. It was quite obvious to him by the behavior he had displayed, allowing her into his private space whenever she beckoned. He fancied himself in love with her…although he could not be sure, for he had never experienced love.

If it was love, then it was strange indeed and it was a toxin coursing through the fine network of his veins, filling his body with dreadful longing. The hope, he found, was the worst symptom of all. He knew he was too broken to love her adequately, and she certainly could never possibly love him back.

But it was her small gestures, the innocent touches, the bright smiles, her willingness to know him, which had him clinging like a desperate man clutching ship debris while lost in a turbulent ocean.

Madness had taken him, giving him grand plans of bringing her into his home, allowing him to entertain the pathetic fantasy that with enough time she would grow accustomed to his constant presence. He had developed the hope that with enough time she would, what? Welcome him to her bed? Warm his cold, dead body with the heat of hers? Hold him tight in the dark and whisper fervent words of ardor and desire, bathe him in breathy sighs of satisfaction as his fingers wandered her body in the dark?

He could have allowed her to grow dependent upon him, to source all her highs from him alone. It would be so terribly easy to keep her in supply, so trivial to rob pharmacies and hoard a stash down here just for her.

Fixing broken objects was enjoyable, and he could not help when a challenge presented itself. She represented that, a bird with a snapped wing that he wanted to mend or a broken cuckoo clock that needed to be gutted and regeared. It was all folly, for one broken person cannot possibly fix another.

Having her so near was torment, yet sending her way seemed like hell.

With the war inside his mind, he left the confines of his closet and found himself standing over her curled, crying body in the bathroom.

“I have thought about this at great length, Christine.”, he said as he sat upon the floor beside her, his long legs jutting out as he pressed his back against the wall.

“You think I’m weak.”, she blubbered, her face pressed into her hands.

“I do not.”, he replied truthfully.

They remain in a terrible silence for what felt like eternity, the seconds dragging by painfully. Her sniffles could be heard, ringing in his ears as loud as gunshots, as she shivered violently on the floor.

“I offer you a choice.”, he said as he placed the jar of pills upon the cool tile of the bathroom floor. They rattled in the bottle as they made their descent, a love song to an addict in withdrawal.

She pushed her sick body from the floor, her face red and streaked with tears. It was a dreadful sight to see her in such a state. Those slender fingers of her darling hand reached immediately for the vice which sat like a beacon on the floor.

“The choice is this,” he said sternly, halting her hand midair, her fingers outstretched desperately. “I could take you now and enter you into a very comfortable treatment center. You could recover and be cared for by the very best of addiction specialists. Afterward, you would return here, you would have your own room awaiting you…or,” he pointed an abnormally long and thin finger towards the garish orange container sitting before them, “You choose the Grasshopper and you never return here.”

Her face scrunched up with utter confusion as the words sank themselves into her understanding. “I could never come back?”, she replied in dismay.

“I could not possibly live with a using addict.”, he lied easily. This was for his own self-preservation and he knew it, he was not worried he would relapse, he was afraid he would lose himself to his obsession for her. She had become his poison of choice.

Her blue eyes, puffy and ringed, searched his, as though she would find more answers hidden in their yellow depths. It was then that he knew it was time to do what he had decided to do…this charade had gone on far enough. It was only fair she know now what he truly was.

Reaching his hands to the back of his head, he loosened the artfully tied stays of his mask and allowed it to drop sadly into his lap. It fell like his very last hope, dully and soundly. Her eyes grew as large as full, blue moons. The blood drained from her already stark, white face as she took in his appearance for the first time.

_Yes,_ he thought, _now you understand why I have no mirrors in this room._

What was it she saw first, he wondered, the translucent sallow skin, the skeletal features…or was it the cavity that sat prominently in the center of his face, black and menacing? Had she seen inside another person’s sinus cavity before now?

“I’m sorry,” she managed to mutter as she flew to the toilet and began to dry heave her nothing stomach contents into the fine porcelain bowl. The sound shredded roughly through him.

He stood and looked upon her dispassionately, his heart drained and his mind numb. It would do him no good to feel anything in this moment. With an act formed from habit, he reattached the mask to his horrid face.

“I am going to leave you now. I will leave all the doors to the building open as I do so…I will give you ample time to come to your decision.”

He did not wait for her to reply, wordlessly slipping from the bathroom and leaving her behind with her face still hidden in the privacy of the toilet bowl.

With callousness in his heart, he walked out of his apartment, leaving wide open the door to his private sanctuary. He brusquely walked, running from the feelings that stalked him down the long hallway towards the exit outside. Each time he stopped to manually deactivate a security feature; he could practically hear the heavy breath of Grief against his neck.

When he found himself outside, standing in the fading light of day, a crisp breeze ruffling his hair and penetrating the thin fabric of his dress shirt, it felt as though he had escaped the beast that prowled him. Yet the tips of his fingers itched, begging him to return inside.

_Hold her, comfort her, be her savior. She could look past your horrors with enough substances, with enough dependency…She almost had…You nearly had everything you craved._

She had ruined his life by entering it the way she had, but she was blameless. He had been the weak one, the sick one. Her very presence was temptation incarnate. It was only a matter of time before he did something thoroughly stupid, before he took advantage of a desperate woman.

Glancing at his palm, he took in the sight of the pale scar and remembered his moment of madness.

_Never again._

The street seemed to welcome him as he made his way down its cracked sidewalk, taking an aimless path to further distance himself from the feelings that treaded close on his heels. He did not allow himself to think, simply focusing on the task of dipping through alleys and avoiding pedestrians. Any other time, leaving his home open and vulnerable would have been beyond unthinkable…but now, he cared not. A mob could enter his house and destroy it, burn it to the ground, and he would shrug his shoulders and move elsewhere.

Nothing felt important anymore.

The city grew dark as night descended, indicating it was time to return home.

When he found himself standing in his bathroom once more, the bottle of pills was missing.

She was gone, just as he knew she would be.

The world shattered around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great comments on the last chapter.   
> I know this one was brutal...It was hard to write.
> 
> Hope you are all healthy and safe.


	14. Wallow

** Chapter Fourteen: Wallow **

****

Time stopped and hovered for days. He had tried to compose, to tinker, to work on anything else, but he found himself draped carelessly over his sofa instead. Staring at his deep, grey ceiling until he could see nothing at all, save fuzzy particles which seemed to merge and separate within his vision. Something inside him had broken and he was far too tired to fix it, content to lay in the same spot for two days while the rest of the world outside his building moved and changed. The sirens, the occasional voice which filtered through his only window reminded him that he was still alive, and he despised them for that.

He attempted to compose, but the music that came spinning from his mind was so ugly, so brutal, to disjointed, it could influence anyone who listened to commit murder-suicide. Each note was placed into the staff paper with his own blood. For three days, he placed himself within a thick cocoon of dangerous, dark music until eventually the music, like his blood, ran dry and he had none left to give.

She came scratching on his window a few days later, in the deadest part of night, pitifully calling for him.

_‘Please,’_ , she begged, sounding more like a stray feline than a woman _‘I’m sorry. Please let me in.’_

In the dark he lay, cemented to the fine fabric of his sofa, his eyes clenched tight as he willed her away silently with his thoughts. An agonizing hour passed this way, she was making quite the scene on the sidewalk outside, he was sure. Had this been a residential street it would have concerned the neighbors, but his was the only apartment building on the block, a building kept empty. Her frantic rapping and pleading were too much for him to bear.

She had even apologized for reacting to his face in the manner she had, and that had nearly broken him. It was nearly enough to resurrect him from his prone state and welcome her into his home like one would a hungry vampire. _‘Oh do, please, come in. Devour me, oh foul spirit.’_

Did she not know the danger she possessed, the great damage she was capable of?

He clenched his fists so tight his joints began to scream in protest as her cries pelted him like stones. This onslaught of inner confliction was more painful than any blade, more scalding than any flame. It felt like the longest stretch of time, pulled out long like taffy until the tension in his heart grew to the point of snapping.

When at last the world fell silent once more, when she had surrendered her sad spectacle outside his small basement window and vacated the block…only then hid he loosen his fists and breathe a sigh of relief.

The relief was short lived, it fluttered through him like a delicate breeze before the sickening sense of grief and dread reappeared and sucked it forcefully from his being like a great vacuum of despair.

That idiot, Daroga came sniffing around eventually. Disrupting his delightful pity party with his obnoxiously sincere concern.

When the Iranian walked through his front door, he did not even have the strength to sit up. How long had he been upon this sofa? A week? Two weeks? He vaguely recalled his brief trips to the kitchen for glasses of tap water, of the occasional trip to the bathroom…but aside from those small changes to his stagnant existence, he could recall nothing to mark the passing of time.

“How did you get in here?”, he growled at the sudden intrusion.

“I had a key, remember?”, Daroga cautiously replied, holding up a simple keyring with his handsome hand and giving it a slight jiggle to illustrate his point.

“I don’t want you here. Go away.”

“I’ve been calling and texting for two weeks, Erik. What is this?”, Daroga waved a hand to the open containers of food that had remained upon his coffee table since the night Christine had eaten from them. Their contents were covered in a fine, fuzzy green and black mold, the odor emanating from them was ghastly.

“French take out, would you like some?”, Erik replied sardonically, waving a limp hand in the direction of the containers from where he lay like a sick man.

“It smells like death in here, Erik. When is the last time you bathed?”, Daroga’s beautiful face scowled, his dark eyebrows drawing together to form one. It almost made him look comical.

“I do not recall, I have been very busy.”, he dismissed lazily.

“Wallowing in something, I see. Are you using again?”, the suspicion was ripe in Daroga’s question.

“No...but I may as well have been. She was an addiction and I had to quit.”, he replied with a dreamlike voice, he could practically hear his own words drifting away like balloons as they slipped from his lips. “She could not accept me truly, she said she could but...no.” His eyes, lost and dull, continued to stare at nothing, like looking into a great emotionless void. “What I felt for her was poisonous and I could no longer watch her suffer…”

“Who are you talking about? Is this about the woman you took to Antoinette’s? She told me you had been with a woman in distress…”

“You do not understand, Daroga. I have never wanted something so completely. My heart is corrupted now.” If he had been better hydrated, he may have shed a tear just then. He felt the corners of his eyes sting with the need.

Daroga shook his head and walked over to the grand piano, its surface cluttered with a handful of fresh compositions, music he had created in the first few days after her departure.

“You’ve been writing music again?”, Daroga pointed to the chaotic scribblings. Picking up a particularly messy page of script he gave it a quick glance and gasped. “God, Erik, is this your blood?”

“It is the only appropriate way to write music that burns as that does. Pray you never hear the notes on that page, Daroga.”, Erik replied vacantly as he continued to stare up at the empty, grey ceiling.

“You look thinner, I didn’t even know that was possible…when is the last time you ate something?”, Daroga sighed while shaking his head. He walked towards the kitchen and Erik recalled the door to Christine’s room was left open. Daroga’s presence so near a space that would have been hers felt like a great invasion.

“This room…You’ve been working on it?”, Daroga said from a distance as he looked into the vastly unfinished bedroom.

“STAY OUT OF THERE!!!”, Erik spat out in a rage that defied the depleted energy reserves he had.

Daroga stormed out of the kitchen area with his hands in the air, a gesture of exasperation. “Have you lost your mind? Please tell me what has happened to you!”, he demanded.

“The worst possible thing, Daroga. Now go.”, Erik limply replied. “I do so appreciate your uninvited visit, but I believe I have things to do.”

His partner sighed, running his fingers through the thick locks of his coarse black hair. “Very well, lay around like a sad dog all day for all I care. Let yourself starve to death and waste away like some tragic, Victorian figure.”, he moved towards the door and stopped, looking over his shoulder. Erik’s gaze met his in an act of defiance. “I have a job for you when you’re ready.”

The idea of murder sounded far more enticing than what he had been engaged in over the past couple of weeks. Perhaps he would feel better if he did a job.

Erik swallowed and pushed himself up into a sitting position, his bones and muscles ached from the days of inactivity.

“Tell me the details.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for those of you who left me a comment to tell me your thoughts!  
> It means so much for writers to hear how their stories affect their readers.


	15. The Targets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! I'm bumping up the rating for future sexual situations.

** Chapter Fifteen: The Targets **

He found himself in Hong Kong, a devastating, densely populated city of tightly packed skyscrapers springing from the ground like aggressive weeds. There were too many people for his comfort. Even in the latest hours of night the streets where full of activity, yet there was something almost mesmerizing about the plethora of neon lights that lined the streets. This trip would be remarkably profitable, as Daroga had secured two separate jobs in the same city.

One of his targets was certainly a waste of flesh, an American billionaire playboy who owned a tech corporation yet operated in the shadows as a human trafficker.

The other target was quite innocent. Merely a Chinese doctor who had crossed the wrong people. The hit was political in nature.

Daroga had delivered the name of the second target with a bit of reluctance.

_“There’s a second target…”,_ Daroga sighed as he handed Erik the flash drive, _“But I found no dirt on him. As far as I can tell, he’s a good, decent man.”_

_“This concerns you?”,_ Erik coolly replied.

_“I know you prefer the targets with a tainted side, something that rationalizes taking them out.”_

He laughed at that. _“My dear, Daroga. I care not. I merely say I do to appease your sensibilities.”_

Daroga had sighed at his blunt confession. _“I suppose it was a lovely illusion while it lasted.”_

Erik had considered his partner for a moment. They sat in his filthy apartment, with stinking take out boxes and scattered, bloody music compositions, all proof of his two weeks of lamentation.

_“Why would you bring me a target that you are nearly certain is innocent?”_

Daroga had fallen silent, Erik could see the heat of anger forming behind his bright green irises.

_“Something about this is personal.”_ , Erik realized out loud.

_“I did not think you would go all the way to Hong Kong unless it was worth your time.”_ , the Iranian admitted.

_“The billionaire.”_ , the realization dawned on him, _“You’ve tried to get me to take this hit before. Why are you anxious to have the job done?”_

_“His operation kidnapped and sold my little sister. She was only sixteen.”_

Erik leaned back. _“I did not know you had a sister.”,_ he admitted. In truth, he had searched for information on Daroga’s background, but the insufferable man left a squeaky-clean digital trail.

Daroga snorted. _“You act like I’m the mysterious one. I know far less about you, and yet, I consider you my friend. After all…we have been through proverbial hell together.”_ Daroga shrugged. _“My sister is fine, I located her, and she has been safe for a number of years. She even has children now. I’m an uncle, if you could believe that. She has moved on, but I still want the son-of-a-bitch who placed a brand on her back to die.”_

_“You do not wish to be the one to watch the light fade from his eyes?”_

_“You know I’m not as skilled as you. You know I’m only of use in a battle, not one on one.”_

So, he went to Hong Kong, with the newfound knowledge that Daroga considered him a friend.

It unnerved him.

He took his time surveilling his first target. He could not afford to make the same mistake as the last time. The billionaire, Jordan, though their names were usually inconsequential to him, kept a fairly erratic schedule. It was the sort of challenge which Erik preferred most, like hunting an elusive creature which only appears under the light of certain full moons. His timing and execution required perfect precision.

Committed to take his time with the surveillance and assassination, Erik had more than enough time to think of her…He had kept her t shirt with him, but it had long since lost any lingering scent of her. Still, he would occasionally hold it to his unmasked face and imagine it were her he breathed in through his nonexistent nose.

He had received an email a week into his trip from his partner at the restraint alerting him that some packages had arrived, reminding him of the clothing he had ordered her to purchase. It brought him a great amount of guilt for having forced her away so quickly. Why did he insist on revealing himself to her in the manner he had? What reaction had he expected?

He knew. He only longed to push the temptation of her away, so fearful of his tenuous grip on the control of his own urges. Now that some distance had been placed between them, he despaired over his choice. He knew the choice he had given her was unfair.

The target gave him his opportunity one night, two weeks into his trip, and Erik, like a wraith, found himself standing at the foot of the man’s bed. The bedroom was dark, but the light from a neighboring building filtered through the window. As the man slept, unaware of the viper which had slithered into his luxury penthouse bedroom, Erik sneered. The man was very attractive, and it reminded Erik that some individuals carried their ugliness within. Had this man sported a face to match his innards, he would certainly look much worse than Erik!

Erik contemplated for a moment of a face which was more horrible than his…the thought was comforting in a strange way.

The syringe was already in his hand as he walked alongside the bed, his feet making no sound upon the glossed, concrete flooring. The drug would keep the man alert yet paralyze him completely. He would be absolutely helpless.

He placed the needle directly into the sleeping man’s jugular and depressed the plunger in a singular, seamless motion and jumped back. The man’s eyes flew open from the sting of the needle and shot up in bed, he turned towards Erik with a terrified, confused look in his eye. He tried to get out of the bed, but the drug took effect and he slumped over.

He did not even have the opportunity to scream.

“I suppose you are seeking an explanation as to why someone would enter your home with the intent to kill you. I daresay, I would.”, Erik spoke coolly as he sat upon the bed next to the prone body of the man who grunted and groaned. “Oh, spare your energy. You cannot move, I’ve taken the liberties of incapacitating you completely.”

He withdrew a second syringe from his jacket pocket and uncapped it.

“My instructions are to make your death appear natural”, he smoothly explained, “What I am prepared to give you will mimic a heart attack…but I must give you some warning, this will be agony. The death is neither slow, nor painless. Every nerve in your body will become fiercely irritated. It will feel as though you are being burned alive. It’s a concoction of my own making.”

A pitiful groan came from the man on the bed who now had his face pressed into sheets that were growing wet from his own drool.

“By now I’m sure you are feeling just as helpless as all those poor young girls in which you trade. This visit may be business, but I have an associate who very much wishes to know you suffered greatly.”, he paused momentarily to prep the syringe. “Let’s get on with it shall we?”

With that he inserted the needle into a prominent vein in the crook of the man’s arm and waited as the foul mixture did its awful deed.

Oh, how he groaned and lowly wailed as he agonized for nearly fifteen minutes before he shuddered and convulsed violently.

Erik left once the deed was done, with hardly a smudge on his conscience.

That night he lay awake in the bed of his rented apartment with Christine’s shirt tucked beneath his head. He carried it like a talisman, as though it would kill the crippling loneliness he felt. He had not realized how lonely he had been until he knew of her existence.

Where was she? Was she safe?

The mind took him down dark and dangerous roads, showed him terrible and troubling scenarios. He felt as if he may vomit from the intensity of the feelings they provoked. He wished to leave this city and run to her immediately.

But, yet, he was so afraid.

Over the next week we tracked his second target, the Chinese doctor named Bai. This target was completely blameless. An elderly man with a stainless record and an enviable level of occupational respect, a veritable pillar of his community.

It wasn’t the first innocent man Erik had killed, but Daroga had done an artful job of funneling only the worst individuals his way.

The old doctor lived alone, a widower who lost his wife and child in a terrible fire. He devoted his life running a foundation which offered resources to burn victims. The old man was everything Erik was not, kind, generous, respected…loved.

For the first time, Erik felt great envy towards one of his prey, but also something else…was it pity?

The doctor lived in a humble apartment, filled with books and photographed pictures of his long, lost family. It was a small, cluttered home but full of warmth. Filled with mementos of his long life, spanning seven decades. The surrounding was such a contrast between his first target’s abode, which had been vacant and empty, filled with no mementos nor sentimentality.

It was in the center of all the remembrances of this old man’s life that Erik waited, sitting comfortably upon the plush sofa as though he had been invited for afternoon tea.

An hour later, the doctor returned, turning on the lights of the living room as he entered. His eyes grew wide as he saw Erik sitting there in his home. The old man’s face turned nearly as white as his hair.

“I suppose you are here to kill me.”, he nervously said in Cantonese.

“You are correct in your assumptions.”, Erik replied in the same language.,

The doctor removed his jacket and hung it upon a hook.

“Will it be painful, your method?”, he asked softly.

“I had not planned on such a demise for you.”

The old man sat in a chair across from Erik, the table next to it was stacked with medical books and journals. The two men sat like this for several minutes, in a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable until the doctor finally said, “I should at least have the dignity of seeing the face of my killer.”

Erik gave a curt nod and removed the black mask covering his countenance.

The doctor’s expression turned sympathetic. “You poor man. That is quite a deformity.”

The pity was like a sharp, twisting blade into Erik’s heart and he wished he could pull his gaze away from the empathetic expression plastered on his target’s face.

“I don’t require your pity.”, he coarsely snapped.

The doctor considered him a moment. “I have a colleague, he’s young, only a few years out of medical school, but he is gifted in the ways of prosthetics. He volunteers for my foundation…please, allow me to give you his information. He is honest and compassionate.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”, Erik asked with rare confusion, but his words carried a bit of residual bile.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before they sent someone for me. I was fighting for things which make many people uncomfortable, things which I believe to be fundamental human rights…I understand the politics…I am not the first of my kind to be silenced.”, he gave a heavy sigh, “I can at the very least, be grateful for a painless death. Besides…”, he plucked a framed photo from the table and gazed upon it longingly. “I miss my family, it has been thirty years since I have seen them last.”

“I take no pleasure in this particular assignment.”, Erik confessed. “Yet, you are correct. I make for a more preferable executioner.”

“Tell me, have you found love?”, the doctor asked wistfully, his eyes lingering on the photograph.

“I have. I found it to be excruciating.”

“It is perhaps the greatest thing I have ever done…”, the doctor sadly replied, his voice thick with the formation of unshed tears. “Everything I have done since then has been for them, for their memory.”

“I will allow you some time to your thoughts. I am in no rush.”

The doctor placed the photo of his family back upon its place on the table. “Would you share some tea with me?”, he asked.

They two sat for nearly an hour, conversing over tea as if they had been old friends. The pot was refilled twice as the doctor pressed Erik for details of his life. “I have a right to know the man who will end my life.”, he had jabbed, almost playfully.

Erik unburdened his soul. He delved into the most painful parts of his childhood, he regaled of his many international travels, of his many odd ventures, of the night he lost his only decent mask…but mostly, he spoke of Christine. He confessed of things he would not dare tell another living soul. Perhaps he felt such liberation knowing the man before him would take all his secrets to the grave, but there was something more there…it was as if the good doctor saw the humanity in him.

The doctor, in turn, told him of the joy and sorrows that come from loving a family so fiercely, only to lose them so violently. He spoke of the day of his son’s birth, how brightly the world seemed to glow around him and how dark it had become with the news of his tragic death. He pointed to a table, filled with pictures of some of his youngest patients, all terribly disfigured from fire.

“They became my surrogate family.”, he said, “I grew to love each one. It was like I had resurrected my own son from the flames.”

The doctor used his cell phone to send an email to his colleague, informing him of Erik’s need for assistance in obtaining a prosthetic and he handed Erik a business card with the same man’s contact information.

“Why this? Why murder as an occupation?”

“It is what I excel at.”, he said dismissively.

Erik noticed a violin case sitting, propped up in a corner, gathering a thick coat of dust.

“Who played the violin?”, he asked.

“My wife. She played so beautifully, professionally. The house was always filled with music.”, a tear sprung from his eye and rolled down his cheek. “I was on a trip for business and I purchased that violin for her during my travels. Her birthday was approaching. The fire occurred while I was away. I never had the opportunity to give it to her.”, he gave a sad laugh. “I still take it in every year on her birthday to have the bow hair and strings replaced. I think, I believe her spirit is using it in the afterlife.”

Erik strolled over to pluck it from the corner. Upon opening the lid, he appraised it to be a very fine instrument. He lifted the rich, wooden body from its velvet confines and went straight to tuning the strings and rosining the bow. The rosin was old, but still adequate for use.

The doctor’s eyes grew large as he watched Erik lift the violin to the crook of his neck and place the bow upon the strings. He weaved a sweeping melody that curled around the doctor with promises of a reunion with lost loved ones on the other side. He opened the spirt world for a moment and allowed the doctor to feel as though he were mere inches away from the family he missed so immensely. The doctor, with his arm outstretched was reaching for someone who was there, yet not.

Only when the melody ended, did the doctor realize the spell by which he had been cast and he broke down in sobs.

“I am ready.”, the doctor finally said.

In the end, it was an enviable death. The doctor sat in his most favorite chair and Erik handed him a vial containing a poison of his own making. The doctor passed peacefully and painlessly while looking upon a photograph of the two people he loved most in the world. Erik weaved a gentle melody upon the strings of the violin as the old man nodded out and was gone from this plane to the next.

When Erik left the doctor’s home, he felt a strange pang of regret. He had killed countless men, and now, after all that time, he was haunted by the memory of this singular individual.

What was happening to him?

Quickly making his way through the streets, he sought to separate as much distance between himself and this newfound feeling.

_Run,_ he told himself. _Do not let yourself feel it._

Yet, despite his best efforts, he knew the doctor would linger with him forever.


	16. Shame and Desire

** Chapter Sixteen: Shame and Desire **

The young doctor gently inspected his face with light touches and a clinical eye, the process made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Yet there was no sympathy, no pity, only a certain directness in the doctor’s serious gaze. Dr. Hua explained the technicalities of his prosthetics with a thoroughness that left no questions. He did not ask Erik questions about his deformity nor about his eyes, he did not ask to take an excessive number of photographs or scans, he did not mention medical journals or publishing.

He did not even ask Erik his name.

“Bai only said a man in a black mask would call me. He instructed me to assist you with obtaining a better facial covering. He also insisted your anonymity be of top priority, that any information I receive must be freely given. I am to accept no payment, as this will be done as a favor to him…he is a very good man, I am always happy to oblige. I hope you will be pleased with my work.”, Dr. Hua explained as they entered his facility after hours.

Dr. Hua explained that a very minor surgical procedure was required to install exceptionally strong micromagnets just beneath his skin in strategic locations around the hairline. He said it as casually as if Erik had a hairline, not a sad collection of blacks wisps and tufts scattered about his scalp. The procedure was to be done with injections of local anesthetic.

“You will only be numb for a few hours.”, Dr. Hua explained as he held up swatches of color next to Erik’s face in an attempt to determine his skin tone. “Your skin does not match any of my swatches, so I may be required to mix the color by hand. It needs to blend seamlessly to the rest of you face in order to make it convincing. You should be able to walk in the day light without a second glance.”

“The daylight?”, Erik mused, “You are that confident?”

“Well, yes.”, Dr. Hua tried to hide a proud grin, “Although it will not be as expressive as your face…you have a very expressive face, did you know that?”

The thought had never occurred to Erik, he had worn a mask his entire life and had not been required to use expressions to state his points nor did he make a habit of watching himself in the mirror.

“You also have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard; you could convince me to buy almost anything.”, Dr. Hua added with a slight chuckle. “Even a rusted bicycle.”

Only one digital scan of his face was made, which erupted a great deal of nervousness within his chest. Dr. Hua must have picked up on this and assured him that they would not save the scan. It would only be filed away if Erik were a patient, and since they had no records of him in their systems, the file would be destroyed. The scan was absolutely necessary to create a perfect fit.

The surgical procedure was very brief. Dr. Hua had quick, dexterous hands which sliced cleanly into the parchment-like skin of Erik’s face and inserted the impossibly thin magnets beneath. Erik could only feel the pressure and the slight tug as the doctor applied surgical glue to each incision.

“You have very thin skin, and stiches would only tear.”, he explained as he applied the strong adhesive the wounds. “They will be nearly healed by the time you come back for the prosthetic. You can see the magnets below the skin, but only a bit, this will be concealed with the covering.”

Dr. Hua showed Erik a mock design of the item he would soon use to cover his face, it would flesh out his cheeks, offer him eyebrows and, most importantly…the nose was perfection. It looked far superior to the other prosthetic he owned which sported a larger than desired nose, a contrast in color with the lower portion of his face and required stays to be kept in place.

He was required to stay in Hong Kong for another week while Dr. Hua worked to prepare the prosthetic. Erik would leave the country with a box of them so he would never be required to endure the discomfort of examinations or scans again, should something happen to the first. A lifetime supply of perfect masks.

Erik spent the nine days in his rented apartment, scouring the internet, looking for any sign of Christine Daaé. Her single online presence was located on a social media platform where individuals uploaded their photographs to share with the world. It absolutely perplexed him to no end why individuals would willingly share their personal details to the world so frivolously. They only served to make themselves easy targets to digital crime. He could think of a thousand and one different ways to use the personal information gathered from social media and use it for nefarious purposes.

Yet as he lounged on the perfectly made bed, with his laptop open and her profile page fully expanded on the screen, he thanked the heavens for social media. The images had not been updated in over a year. She looked alive, with a pink hue to her sun kissed cheeks and a bit more weight filling her frame. Those blue irises looked into the camera and shone like sapphires, as if her inner light was glowing from within.

He looked with genuine interest at the photos she posted of her father, who was obviously ill but smiling with genuine joy. He quickly flipped past the images of her and that obscenely attractive ex-boyfriend, Raoul, who looked like a golden god, all brawn and suntan. The photos he spent the most time gazing upon were the images featuring only her…she was breathtaking, with wild, blonde hair that had a mind of its own and eyes that could cut through him like lasers.

Eventually he stumbled upon an image of Christine, lounging in a sunchair beside a pool. A tight two-piece swimsuit clung to her body like second skin. Swallowing hard, he stared hungrily at the image as he pictured what lay just beneath the thin bits of fabric that stretched across her breasts and about her hips…he did not need to imagine hard. Her nipples would be erect from the slight chill of the pool water, her triangle of blonde curls would be slightly dampened. His body responded to these carnal thoughts and, before he knew what he was doing, he had reached within his trousers and had gripped about his hardness tightly. Yet in his mind it was Christine’s hand which now clasped him with such familiarity as she pumped him with delicious fervor. She would coo about how pleased she was with what he had to offer her, she would beg him to please her.

_‘I need you to touch me, Erik. I have dreamed of this for so long…’_

Together they would remove that scant outfit from the curves of her lithe body, and he would do all the things he had ever dreamt. His hand sought her t shirt, lying beside him on the bed. He pressed it forcefully against his face, desperate to have a part of her with him now as he sought his fruition. How would she taste if he pressed his face like this between her thighs? Like sugar and salt, he imagined. Would she let him dip his tongue into the most intimate part of her?

In his thoughts her pleased her this way, languidly lapping at the moist world between her legs.

Her thighs would close about his head, as though she could not bear to let him go and her back would arch from pleasure as she breathed into the air, _“Erik…”_

“Christine!”, he cried as he spilled hotly into his own hand, his body tense and convulsing from the violence of his climax.

The dream immediately evaporated. Shame slithered out of the darkness and covered him like an all too familiar lover and he curled upon the bed and cried.

Nobody could ever wish for his creepy love. Especially not her. It seemed almost blasphemous to think of her in such a way…and yet he could not help himself. If only he had not been so starved, he would know how to combat this hunger. Being a master at self-gratification simply was not enough. He longed for the touch of warm, soft skin between cool, smooth sheets.

He wanted Christine. All of her.

He often wondered if murder was not a surrogate for sex. After all, it was an intimate process and he often felt connected to his victims, just before their death, in a way he could not articulate. The rush he earned from the kill was a bit like the rush he got from masturbation…not the same entirely, but similar enough to warrant comparison.

Perhaps when he returned to the states, he would visit Antoinette’s again. Perhaps she had a blonde-haired woman…

He had never felt so pathetic before. What was he to do? Pay an escort to pretend they were Christine? It seemed so absurd, and it would never work, he already knew her scent, already knew her voice. No amount of mental gymnastics could convince him that one woman was as good as the other.

He tormented himself this way, for the whole nine days, while he patiently awaited the completion of his prosthetics. Isolated for the entire stretch he found himself doing almost nothing but gazing upon her photos and losing himself in fantasies, both sincere and erotic. It was over a week of desire and shame intertwined in a perfect tango.

His own mind was waging a war against him.

Just when he had nearly reached his breaking point, when he was certain he would go mad from love and lust, the doctor called and told him his masks were ready.

When he left his rented apartment that evening, he did so for the last time, locking away the shameful moments within it.

Dr. Hua was waiting for him when he arrived at the medical center. He had a very pleased look plastered upon his face.

“I believe it may be my best work yet,”, he explained as they walked into the facility together. “But I’ll need to see the fit before I celebrate.”

When the doctor raised the prosthetic to Erik’s face, there was only the slightest sensation of pressure as the magnets adhered through the skin. Dr. Hua handed Erik a hand mirror and, for the first time in decades, Erik looked at his full reflection with clarity. It was seamless, the mask, and while he would never be an attractive man, he looked…almost normal.

His face was all the wrong color, too sallow and sickly and his sad bits of hair stood out.

He almost laughed as he imagined himself wearing a wig. He would look like quite the Don Juan then, perhaps he would need to bat all the women away! 

Imagine, Christine and he, having picnics in the park, in the daylight. He could hand feed her strawberries and perform card tricks for her delight. Passerby’s would see them together and envy their love, for they would see that no two people could possibly have what they shared. Together they could go to the Opera and he would watch her swoon with the music, perhaps sneak a kiss or two in the darkness during the performance.

A mask that looks anybody…

It seemed clear, he needed to find Christine when he returned, or his soul would never feel whole. He would never feel complete if he did not know that she was safe.

“I have some bad news,” Dr. Hua said, “I did not wish to say it until the end…Bai has passed away.”

“That is very sad to hear”, Erik said sincerely. “He was a very wonderful man. Admirable, even.”

“It has been a very odd week. Bai was such an important part of the foundation, he will be so missed…It is a shame he was not alive to see the generous anonymous donation we received. Five million dollars, can you believe someone would donate so much and not seek credit?”

Erik did not reply as he gazed one more time at his nearly normal face in the mirror.

It was the best money he had ever spent.


	17. The Words That Chase Us

** Chapter Seventeen: The Words That Chase Us **

****

When the landing gear of the private jet eventually touched ground in the states, Erik had been gone for nearly a month and a half. His heart was thrumming in his chest, every muscle was tensed with anticipation for what was to come next. It had been too long, days without her had seemed unbearable, weeks were sheer agony, but over a month was just hell come to life. All he had to sustain himself were old photographs which floated on the internet like weak beacons of hope. He had stared at the photographs so long that it was as if they had sprung to life and become real. He had gone a bit mad over those last few weeks, a man making promises and love to a handful of photos, existing in a world made of yearning and shame.

Stepping into the dusk air, he was greeted with a chilly winter breeze. The last sliver of sun was casting light in a dizzying array of colors, upon the clouds on the western horizon, in a sunset that could rival a museum worthy painting, all neon pinks and oranges. Taking in a deep breath through the nasal holes of the prosthetic, the air flowing smoothly and naturally, he felt as though he could almost smell her somewhere in the city which loomed in the periphery.

There was a pang of hope within his chest, somewhere in the place of his heart where a big, Christine-shaped void lay.

The drive into the city was terribly uneventful, but there was no denying the joy he felt to be behind the wheel of his own vehicle, to drive into his own city, to finally enter his own home. His residence had been cleaned well before he left, yet it was still cluttered with the haunting memories of those last days of contact, the way she retched and cried in the bathroom, the manner in which she pleaded outside his window like a desperate ghost and all the self-loathing that followed in its path.

There were so many intimate memories attached to the sofa. He felt as if he had seen her very soul, right there, by the fire the night he played her father’s record and listened to her sing wordlessly along. He knew so little about her, and yet, he felt he knew everything about her.

Depositing his luggage in the empty, quiet apartment, he stayed for only a moment before leaving again.

As usual, no one turned their heads when he walked through the kitchen of the restaurant, they were too busy with the dinner rush to even acknowledge his presence. A small army of clowns sporting balloons and juggling bowling pins could scramble through the center of those workers, and still, not a cook would avert their eyes from the tasks at hand.

His partner was sitting at his desk when he entered the small confines of the office, the fluorescent lighting in this room was always atrocious, but he had never bothered to fix it since he had never spent any real time there.

“I am here to collect the packages which arrived for me”, he stated.

Looking up from his paperwork, his partner did a double take.

“Erik, I didn’t recognize you!”, he managed to sputter, “That’s new…”, he made a weak gesture to his face, while looking terribly uncomfortable. They had only mentioned Erik’s face once, in the beginning and it was made quite clear that the subject was to be avoided at all costs. “I’m sorry,”, he muttered, “It looks so lifelike…”, he cleared his throat and straightened the papers sitting upon his desk as though trying to find something to do with his hands. “The packages there in the corner are for you, and a girl has been in the restaurant looking for you.”

A flash of excitement flew up Erik’s spine like a bolt of lightning, “A girl?”, he quickly replied. “What did she look like?”

“Cute thing. Blonde, shy. She’s come in here twice now over the past few weeks.”

“Did she leave a message? Contact information?”

“No, she just mentioned something about the café a few streets over. The Argentinian owned place, with those cookies with the dulce de leche…the uh…Alfajores, addictive things…I think she said you can find her there. She’s a barista…Who is she?”

His partner did not get the decency of a reply, for Erik was out the office door and running through the kitchen as though he were chasing a ghost that would disappear if he stopped.

The street was crowded in this part of the city, tourists came here, and yet, here he was, running like a man with a singular purpose. He had nearly knocked into a couple as they exited a store but managed to deflect himself off the brawny chest of the man as he continued down the street without an apology.

“Watch it, asshole!”, the stranger yelled back at him as he continued to fly down the street.

He would trample down anyone he needed to if it brought him back to her side.

He knew of the Argentinean café; it was famous for its baked goods in this part of town. It was also the only café in this part of the city where an authentic Cubano espresso could be found, in which raw sugar was put directly into the portafilter during the espresso extraction. Few cafés would subject their machines to such torture, as the sugar often shortened their expensive lives.

When he found himself on the block of the café, he could see its crisp black awnings and charming outdoor seating up ahead. A group of girls were standing up from their table, leaving their ceramic mugs and crumpled napkins behind. He instinctively pulled the brim of his hat a bit lower, knowing full well that it was unnecessary.

The girls walked past him, giggling as they chatted about something inane. One of the girls pointed to something on her cellphone’s screen while the other girls chittered like birds in response. He found himself walking to the window of the café to look inside its amber lit interior, expecting to be disappointed.

And then…. she was there. Standing behind the counter, her hair tied neatly away from her face into a large bun. A black apron was tied around her form and she had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows…there were no marks on the crook of her arm. A female customer was speaking to Christine as she raised a steel pitcher into the milk wand and pulled a lever to release steam, she was smiling and speaking enthusiastically.

She looked…healthy, happy, breathtaking. There was an unmistakable spark in her eye and glow to her skin.

_My Christine…_

The girl he had fixated upon for these agonizing past weeks, who lived for him through photographs alone, was standing inside that café.

He ought to go inside and say something to her. Instead, he stood outside the window, feasting on her loveliness where he stood, until eventually, he tore his eyes away and made a silent vow to return.

As he walked aimlessly down the street, he could scarcely believe it had truly been her. He had returned to this city, fully prepared for the worst and now…everything was different. She looked so alive. It was as if the broken woman he had seen only six weeks prior had been destroyed and replaced with a vivacious, brighter replica. She looked just as she had in her photos online.

Would she even want to see him?

He found himself standing before Daroga’s building, a massive modern thing that stretched upward into the sky like an angry finger. Erik found the building to be a hideous blight on the skyline, but he could not deny the quality of view from Daroga’s apartment. His subconsciousness must have brought him here, for he could see no reason why he would require the advice of his insufferable partner. He ought to turn around and go home, but his legs continued to carry him into the building and up the elevator like the traitorous things that they were.

Erik stood at the threshold of Daroga’s 68th floor loft and knocked upon the door in a distinctive pattern only the two men knew.

“Erik.”, Daroga breezily greeted him as he opened the door only to stop and blink rapidly at the sight of his masked partner. “Oh my…your face…It’s…”

“Are you going to stand there and blubber at the mouth like a fool, or are you going to invite me in?”, Erik snapped, but it lacked the bite…for secretly he was pleased with the reaction his new face had garnered. “You know Erik does not like speaking about his face.”

“Was that done in China?”, Daroga asked as he gestured Erik inside.

“The doctor, Bai…he referred me to a man.”, Erik dismissively replied, as though it were quite trivial to have received medical help from the man whom he had been hired to kill.

Daroga seemed perplexed.

“It must have been quite a trip.”, he replied, stunned, “You know, If it weren’t for your eyes and your familiar demeanor, I would not recognize you on the street.”

“My eyes…”, Erik said aloud, thoughtfully “They are unusual, yes?”

“I don’t meet men with yellow eyes that glow often.”, Daroga gave a humorous chuckle. “Sometimes I wonder if I may get radioactive poisoning standing beside you…you haven’t had any encounters with nuclear meltdowns or bites from lab altered spiders, have you?”

Erik ignored Daroga’s asinine comments and strode over to the floor to ceiling window on the opposite side of the modern loft to scrupulously look at his own reflection. He had never needed to consider his eyes before, not when he hid in the shadows. His old prosthetic was not nearly good enough for him to confidently stroll into the daylight.

“What brings you here, Erik?”, Daroga strode over to a decanter of amber liquor and poured himself a glass.

“I saw her.”, he replied slowly and wistfully, while staring at the glowing reflection of his own eyes in the window. “She is alive, Daroga. I did not kill her…” He turned around to see Daroga sitting on the stiff, black leather sofa with his drink in hand.

“The mystery woman, I suppose, the one that had you living like a dog for two weeks?”, Daroga sighed. “Do you want to talk about her?”

“No.”, he forcefully replied. The Iranian couldn’t possibly understand.

The room fell into an awkward silence for a few minutes. From this level up, the city seemed soundless and still below, nothing more than a collection of blinking lights and movement below.

“I’m going to ask Antoinette to marry me.”, Daroga finally said aloud.

A strange stab of jealousy entered Erik’s heart, not because of the woman he was with, but because he seemed to have found real happiness. He wished it for himself.

“Is it difficult, being with a woman who is with others?”

Daroga snorted. “She’s a Madame, Erik. She merely owns the place; she hasn’t taken clients herself in over a year.”

“How does her daughter feel about the matter?”

“Meg adores me! She was, understandably, a bit protective in the beginning, with a younger man seeing her mother, but she warmed up eventually. She’s doing better, you know. She’s started dancing again, not on the stage, but she teaches ballet to children.”

This good news about Antoinette’s daughter pleased Erik, who wordlessly nodded his head and began to make his way towards the door of the apartment.

Daroga sighed behind him. “Just talk to the woman, Erik. It’s obvious you hold some affection for her…I wish I knew more, I could offer advice, but you are so damned secretive about everything.”

Erik left his apartment with Daroga’s words ringing in his ears… _Just talk to the woman…_

Those same five words echoed around in his mind for days as he returned repeatedly to the café in the evenings to gaze at Christine through the window like a lecherous creep. Some nights she would not be working, and he would feel a vice grip his heart with panic until he saw her again.

He tormented himself this way for nearly a week before he gathered enough courage to set a day to speak to her.

The day came, and he rehearsed his sad little speech in his head repeatedly as he pinched a thin plastic disc between the sharp tips of his fingers and gently pressed it to his cornea. Blinking rapidly a few times, he glanced in the full-length mirror he had installed onto the inside of his closet door. The contact lens shifted with each blink until it moved into place, covering his unnatural irises with a lovely shade of blue. He made a gleeful chuckle at the sight of his new eyes as they looked back at him in the mirror.

The wig was probably a bit too much, it was far too perfect, there was not a single hair out of place. It reminded him of his mother, how perfect her hair was at all times…but he needed the hair to complete the look…he needed to talk to her as a real man. He was so nervous he had spent an hour deciding on the correct color for his pocket square…he decided to go with the dark purple one, it was her favorite color.

Stepping back from the mirror, he straightened the black, tailored three-piece Kiton suit and admired the final product. He would never be a handsome man. His face was still too gaunt, too angular and sallow. The prosthetic was not expressive, but when he moved his mouth it gave a lovely illusion that he did not wear a mask at all.

He reached up and mussed the perfectly coifed wig a bit to destroy its uncanny appearance.

_Just talk to the woman…_

Beneath the amber light fixtures that hung above the bar of the nearly empty café, she stood, wiping the counter with a damp cloth. He walked into the cozy interior of the establishment with a great amount of reluctance and crept towards where she stood at the bar.

She quickly glanced his way. “I’ll be right with you, sir.”, she politely said as she moved to a sink behind her to put away the dishcloth.

Wiping her damp hands on her milk splattered apron, she moved towards the tablet posted on the counter and, for the first time in nearly two months, she looked him in the eye. Her expression was pleasant, as she was greeting him with a smile which formed perfect dimples in her cheeks. The strange urge to dip his face close and lick those perfect little impressions was overwhelming.

She had no idea it was him, and instead, continued to smile politely as she anticipated his order.

_The spell will be broken when Erik speaks. She’ll know who you are, she’ll see past the sham, Erik is not a real man…_

“I would like an espresso…”, he managed to say.

Her smile dropped and she blinked at him a few times as though she were breaking out of a spell.

_She knows…_

“Erik?”, she asked reluctantly.

“Christine.”

“Oh my God…”, she stepped away from the counter, backing up slowly with her mouth agape, before turning and beginning to run. He was certain he had just made a grave mistake until she rounded to exit from behind the bar.

He was not prepared for the embrace when it occurred. She ran straight to him and grasped him in a wickedly strong hug.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left, I made a mistake…”, she sputtered out quickly as she pressed her face into the fine material of his suit.

His arms snaked their way around her shoulders as he tenderly held her close. This was not the reaction he had expected from her.

Finally, she broke away and he could see tears on her face. “You look…so different. What happened to your eyes?”, she was scrutinizing his face like a jeweler who suspected a fake. “Erik, are those contact lenses? And you have hair now…”

He was uncomfortable with her comments. “It is an improvement, is it not? You’ve seen what is beneath…”

Realization dawned across her features. “Oh God, Erik, you think I left because you showed me your face…no…that isn’t it at all…”, she looked around the café nervously. “I have to close soon, I’m the only one here tonight though…so, would you stay until I finish here? I really want to talk to you…”

He gave her a curt nod and moved towards a small, intimate table in the corner to take a seat. Minutes later, she set a fresh shot of espresso before him. “I’ll have everything closed in a half hour, am I keeping you?”

“No, take your time.”, he said as he toyed with the espresso cup using the tips of a single long finger. Her hand landed upon his shoulder and she gave it a gentle squeeze before she went back to her duties.

He gazed out the window, fully aware that he was sitting in a café and sipping espresso like he was any other man. It was not the outside he watched, but Christine’s reflection in the window as she executed her tasks to close up the café. In many ways he felt like an intruder who had entered her personal life to observe her unabashedly.

When she went outside and began to haul awkward tables and chairs into the café, he bolted from his chair and rushed to assist her.

“You’ll hurt your back.”, he muttered as she tried to shoo him away from her task.

“I usually just drag them, but they make this awful noise on the sidewalk and I didn’t want to hurt your ears.”, she smirked.

“They ought to employ a better system, perhaps bolt them to the ground. It is quite absurd to ask you to carry these every day.”, he complained.

“Perhaps you should have a chat with my manager.”, she winked. Winked! At him!

When they had completed the task of wrangling all the outdoor furniture, she locked the doors and shut off most of the lights.

Gesturing to a table she said, “Please, sit with me.”

This was it, his moment to offer his rehearsed speech and suddenly it felt so ridiculous and contrived. He sat upon the chair and neatly folded his hands on the surface of the table, he felt fidgety and anxious. When she sat, she placed one of her hands upon his.

“Did you come here to see me?”, she asked softly, her eyes seeking his in the dim light.

“I had heard you may be here…yes, I had hoped to see you.”, he could not make eye contact, lest it give his feelings away. He felt too vulnerable.

“I shouldn’t have left the way that I did.”, she began, “I panicked, I started feeling things I did not want to feel, and it was just…it was too much…”

“I should not have given you such an unfair choice.”

“I’m glad you did.”, she admitted.

His eyes met hers and he saw sincerity there in those lovely blue depths.

“After I left, I took a lot of those pills…I ran out pretty quickly, I went to go score something on the street and I got lost trying to find the guy…I found myself in front of a treatment center instead. Do you know what the name of the street was? Charlotte, but all I could see what the Lotte...my father used to tell me an old Swedish tale about a girl named Lotte…Anyway, it felt like a sign, like my father was communicating with me somehow. I know it sounds completely ridiculous…”, she sighed and distractedly ran her fingers across the top of his hand. “It was pretty terrible, the facility, I mean…Everyone was lined of pretty close to each other in these really small beds, cots, really. It was just a lot of despair happening in those walls, but I kept thinking of you, of that song you played that one morning. I think you got me through the worst of it.”, a single tear left her eye and rolled slowly down her cheek. He wanted to capture it and swallow it, to keep her with him forever.

“Where are you living?”, he asked, but he wanted to close his eyes and lost himself in the sensation of her hand upon his. Her touch was melting him.

“I got into a really cheap sober living house when I got released, there are some nice women there…but we do have a pretty big bed bug problem and that’s been a lot to deal with. I got this job pretty easily because the owner goes to this meeting that I attend every week…a meeting for addicts.” She took a deep breath, as though to steady her thoughts. “I wish I had a good reason for leaving that night, but I don’t. I just want you to know that I think about you all the time and I’m really grateful to you, for everything you did for me. I want to spend time with you again…”, she blushed and looked away quickly, as though she was embarrassed of how forthcoming she had been.

The blush was breathtaking, sending his heart skittering about in his chest like a scurrying beetle.

His well-rehearsed speech evaporated from his mind, he had come here prepared to beg for a second chance and it was not required of him. He looked down at her hand still resting on his folded hands.

Minutes stretched on in a strangely comfortable silence.

“Would you consider moving out of that bed bug infested living space if I offered my home to you again?”

Her eyes met his and lit up with surprise.

“You still want to be my friend?”, she asked sincerely.

_Friend…_

“I would not be comfortable knowing you were being eating alive by blood-sucking insects in the night…”, he felt her squeeze his hand, and his insides turned to molten liquid.

“I was so scared that I had ruined our friendship…You are my friend, you know. I knew it the moment you found my father’s music.”

He did not want to be her friend. He wanted to be more to her, but he would take what he could, for having her so far away for so long was more than he could bear.

“Will you consider staying with me?”, he asked once more.

“Will you let me pay you some rent? I don’t want to feel like I’m using you.”

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I will accept no such payment…however, you may pay me by enrolling in school.”

She worried her lip and nodded. “School…I think I can do that.”

Their eyes met again, and he felt that familiar heat within him bloom. He could not decide if he was making a terrible mistake by letting her back in, but he didn’t care. He would happily self-destruct for her if she asked.

“I miss your real eyes.”, she said with a frown. “I’ve always loved your eyes.”

After they exchanged information and he found himself reluctantly walking away, those words followed him down the street.

_I’ve always loved your eyes… I’ve always loved your eyes… I’ve always loved your eyes…_

He repeated her words countless times, until eventually it morphed into:

_I’ve always loved you…_

He slept, for the first time in days, with those four words ringing through his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading/commenting!  
> Your words always really make my day.


	18. The Secret Behind Blushes

** Chapter Eighteen: The Secret Behind Blushes **

****

The new prosthetic was working better than he could have ever expected. Dr. Hua had not amplified his own abilities with cheap talk. The young doctor had delivered what he had promised. For the first time in decades, Erik stepped onto his cracked and chipped city sidewalk and basked in the fresh glow of daylight. On that crisp winter morning, the sun offered a meager spring of warmth as it soaked into the black fabric of his wool tweed coat. He could count on a single hand the number of times he had truly felt the sunlight in his life.

Life could be infinitely smoother if he could simply enter a store and purchase what he required, rather than wait for delivery or the cover of darkness. The day’s mission was for a specific list of supplies required for the completion of the new bedroom. Christine had agreed to move in once the month was over, leaving Erik a week to diligently prepare for her arrival. At the very least, he could complete her bedroom, but the custom marble tub was in the process of manufacture and the completion of the bathroom would be delayed.

He walked nearly a mile, past pedestrians and shops, without so much as a second glance and he nearly cried with delight. Not a single head turned in his direction, save for one man who simply commented on the fineness of his suit as he passed. The entirety of his life he had felt like a man doomed to pay the price for the harmless crime of being born different, and now, it felt as though that sentence had been lifted from his shoulders.

The walk was a successful experiment, but the real test remained, and he prepared himself as he opened the door to the shop frequented by high-end interior designers and historical building renovators. He had envisioned a specific sort of embossed wallpaper, with dark, velveteen flowers for Christine’s bedroom and he would settle on nothing short of that vision. _Only perfection will suffice…_

Inside the store, the lighting was pleasant, not that garish fluorescent nightmare typically associated with stores and he was thankful, for florescent lighting was certain to accentuate the small flaws in his near-perfect disguise.

“Do you need assistance?” a chipper man asked, as he approached Erik.

“Yes. There is a particular wallpaper I require…your catalogue featured it.” he breezily retrieved a slip of paper from his pocket with the item number scrawled upon it and handed it to the shop keeper.

The man stared dumbly at him, without looking down at the number upon the paper, and blinked a few times. Erik was certain he was staring at his face until the man finally spoke.

“You have an incredible voice!” he said in a gushing manner. “If you sing as well as you speak, you must be quite the scene at karaoke night.” He looked down upon the paper in his hand. “Oh yes. I know this paper. Stunning stuff. Wisteria and black velveteen, always a wonderful combination for a room, the matte paper and velvet sheen contrast quite lovely” he turned around and waved a friendly hand. “Follow me.”

He led Erik to a separate room of the large store where rolls upon rolls of expensive wallpaper hung upon the walls. The clerk led him eventually to the roll in question and Erik reached out his hand to feel the thick quality of the paper. A vision of Christine sitting upon the bed of her own bedroom, beckoning he enter to join her, emerged into his mind unbidden. _The bedroom must be worthy to fit such a fantasy._

“I will require three rolls” he told the clerk. “I will also require some bathroom hardware, as well as lighting fixtures. Brass.”

The clerk nodded his head and proceed to assist him with the rest of his purchases.

When it came time to pay, Erik did not bother to look upon the price on the invoice before handing over his credit card. He would build her a palace, filled with every beautiful thing money could buy, if it were to bring her joy.

As the clerk ran his transaction through the small credit card machine, he glanced up at Erik, twice, and there were the slight stirrings of curiosity within his expressions, but nothing that was overt. He informed Erik that the items would be delivered within the hour to the address he had specified.

As he left the shop, he realized how successful his first outing had been. He was certain the clerk had noticed the peculiar expressionless quality of his face, and yet, not a word had been spoken.

He could tolerate mild curiosity. For the first time, he felt like anyone else.

His hands were covered in plaster dust, adhesive and paint over the course of the following five days as he worked diligently on the construction of the bedroom. Had there been neighbors, they would have heard the endless banging of a hammer as he installed the parquet flooring and walls for the en suite bathroom. With each task he focused on nothing short of perfection. Each strip of wallpaper was tediously placed and adhered upon the wall, each tile upon the bathroom floor was laid with precision.

In the evenings, he would take a break from his arduous tasks to clean up and visit her at the café. She often had company with her at work, a spunky manager with a nose ring who was certainly much younger than Christine.

“Christine, your man in black is here!” her manager teased as he approached the counter.

Christine came rushing out of the doorway of what appeared to be a back kitchen, with an expectant smile on her face. _She is smiling for you, Erik…See how lovely she is…_

“You must be addicted to the espresso,” she said as she approached the register side of the counter. “It isn’t that good, you know.”

“It is the best espresso in town” he smoothly replied. It was a lie, the espresso was flat and acidic, more akin to consuming battery acid than coffee. “However, the service is truly what compels my habitual patronage.”

The manager rolled her eyes behind Christine and promptly disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Erik and Christine alone in the quiet café.

“Some might say that you are trying to flirt with me” Christine winked but her tone sounded almost serious.

Is that what he was doing? Had his new disguise given him such brazenness?

“I was merely being honest” he replied. “After all, you are my friend.” The words slid off his tongue easily, but they left a bitter taste behind.

She almost looked…disappointed.

He inwardly scolded himself for thinking such a fanciful thought.

“I’m not going to charge you” she stubbornly informed him as he withdrew his wallet.

“Ah, but you see, I have already paid” he flashed a grin, snapping his fingers. A bill folded in the shape of a pinwheel fell from the sky out of seemingly nowhere, spinning gently to the countertop before her.

She clapped her hands together and squealed with such delight that it made him dizzy with pride. “Oh!!! How did you do that?” she breathlessly asked. Her blues eyes were bright like stars on a winter night and wanted to lose himself in those mysterious, cosmic depths.

He placed a long finger on the side of his false nose in reply and quirked his mouth upward in a sly smile. “It would ruin the illusion if I told you” he replied.

“I don’t even want to unfold this…” she frowned. “It is far too beautiful to ruin.”

“Another could always be made” he shrugged. “Place the change in your tip jar.”

The crisp bill unfolded beneath her fingers and she groaned. “This is a hundred dollar bill, Erik.” Sighing, she entered the bill into her register and placed the large amount of change in the large, nearly empty, mason jar sitting before the register.

When she brought his espresso to his table, she sat across from him.

“I’m just going to take a quick break” she said as she sat down. “My feet are killing me. I think I need to get better shoes.”

A quick glance beneath the table informed him of her poor footwear. “Those are very flat and worn. It seems you needed that tip more than you thought.”

Her hand reached across the table, her fingers brushing lightly against the hand which rested beside the cup. Something electric within her touch caused his scalp to tingle. “I just…I don’t want you to feel like you need to take care of me. I don’t want to lean on you…I guess, I just want to know that you respect me too, that I’m not just a charity case.”

“I am only providing the essentials” he dismissed.

“I don’t want to be a burden” she whispered, almost to herself, but he heard every word.

“You could never be that to me.”

Looking away, she blushed, and he, again, had that peculiar, traitorous thought that perhaps she enjoyed his words of affection. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Your room is nearly complete” he nearly blurted out.

She blinked back at him. “You constructed a whole bedroom in less than a week?”

“I work quickly.”

“Do you sleep?” she sighed. He could see she felt self-conscious of his labors for her.

“Only when I need to.”

“I don’t know how to—”

“Don’t” he interrupted her. “Don’t thank me. I could not possibly accept it.”

He knew his motivations were selfish, that every tactic he employed was done so in order to keep her near. Gratitude from her felt too great and precious a thing to accept.

Her hand reached out and she gently touched his shoulder, as though she was making certain he was real and not a mirage that would evaporate before her very eyes. The breath caught in his lungs each time she readily offered him a kind touch. At night, he found himself thinking less on the carnal delights that had so frequently plagued his waking dreams, but rather on these small, innocent touches that said so much yet so little. What did these gestures mean?

Later, as he dipped from the café, onto the quieting city street outside, he could not help but notice the inquisitive glance Christine’s manager had given her, nor did he miss the profuse blush that brightened the cheeks of the object of his affection. What did that mean? Was it for him? What secrets did he not see? All his training and study of the human expression meant nothing now, for he could not glean the hidden meaning behind something as trivial as a blush.

He walked along his usual route home, but once more, found himself standing at the threshold of Daroga’s loft, knocking upon the door like a lost man yearning for help.

“Come in, Erik. I was getting ready to hit the gym…” Daroga sighed as he opened the door, wearing a matching pair of sweat clothing. “I assume you have come to talk about your woman again.”

Erik walked into the loft as though he were entering his own home. He moved to his favorite spot before to window to stare at the city below, catching the reflection of himself in the window and hating it infinitely less now.

“I have asked her to move in with me” he simply remarked.

“I’m sorry…You what?” his incredibly perplexed associate replied to his turned back.

“She required a home, and I am providing one for her.”

Daroga came to stand beside him with his hands folded neatly over his chest and an eyebrow raised with abject curiosity. “Will you please tell me more about this woman?”

“I would rather not” Erik gruffly replied. “I’ve come because I am building a bedroom for her and I have a bathtub I will need help bringing into my home.”

“Erik, I’ve known you for twenty years. I’ve never seen you engage with a woman, and now, you have one living in your home? You cannot fault me for being just the slightest bit curious.”

“I do not require your curiosity; I require your assistance.” Erik said, a bit harsher than intended.

“She must mean something to you, if you are going through all the trouble of constructing a bedroom in your home.” Daroga said out loud with a pleased smile plastered on his handsome face.

“Are you going to assist me or not?” Erik impatiently snapped.

Daroga merely chuckled with amusement. “Of course, I will! I wouldn’t dream of passing up an opportunity to meet this mystery woman” he smugly responded, his hand patting Erik firmly on the back in a brotherly sign of comradery, which Erik disliked.

Erik silently stared out at the blinking light of a faraway traffic light.

“Did you ask Antoinette for her hand?” he asked with sincere interest.

“Yes, I did...I did ask…” Daroga frowned dramatically, looking off into the twinkling lights of the city below. His eyes clouded with a nameless expression, it seemed pained, tortured.

Something coiled in Erik’s stomach, it was uncomfortable and curious. His associate seemed upset, which would not typically concern Erik, but now, seeing his frown, it stirred something within him. It was alien to him…

“I am…sorry” was all that Erik could say and the words felt foreign and unfamiliar in his mouth, as though he couldn’t recognize the shapes of them as they formed, but rather they tumbled like awkward things from his lips.

“You ought to be sorry, you know.” Daroga continued to stare into the vast expanse of urban sprawl below. He turned to look directly into Erik’s eyes with a steely glare, his lips set tight into a firm, unyielding line.

Erik’s thought raced through all the times he may have erred, all the things he may have done to have caused such a thing as Antoinette’s refusal for marriage. It made no sense. Then Daroga’s lips cracked into a gigantic, beaming grin.

“You ought to be sorry, because you may be asked to attend the ceremony” he guffawed. “She said yes!”

Erik didn’t know why he felt relieved, nor did he care to examine the phenomenon. He was too focused on how he had missed the miniscule muscle indicators of deception in his associate’s face.

“You’re upset that you couldn’t read my expression, aren’t you?” Daroga chuckled gleefully. “I’ve been practicing for this very moment. I wanted to know that I could fool the almighty human lie detector! It paid off! I practiced for hours, Erik…hours! What do you think? Should I become an actor? Win an Academy Award?”

“It is not humorous!” Erik barked as he swiveled on his heel and stormed towards the front entry of the loft. “Enjoy your ridiculous happiness. Be sure to have yourself at my residence at the proper time on Saturday!”

He walked out Daroga’s front door with the insufferable man’s laughter chasing behind him. The rest of the walk was spent contemplating marriage…such a thing seemed so unobtainable, just a concept that he could only partially understand. The practice of searching for a partner had eluded him and he had come to a level of acceptance in his place in the world and where he fit in the universe of courtship.

_She blushes when you look at her…is that not something?_

When he returned to his home, he lay down upon the glossy wood flooring of Christine’s new bedroom and fell asleep with the image of her blush in the forefront of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support and feedback! It has been very meaningful and motivating!


	19. The Monolith

** Chapter Nineteen: The Monolith **

****

Saturday, at long last, came. He could scarcely believe she was standing in his home again. In her hand she carried a single plastic shopping bag containing her nonexistent wardrobe and a handful of personal toiletries. Her face had more color to it, as though a painter had picked up a paintbrush and added more accents of life to her face.

“I didn’t want to bring bed bugs into your home” she muttered, the embarrassment of her recent living conditions coated her words. “I sort of left everything behind that they could have traveled in…I washed everything else. I left the guitar with another resident who plays, they lost theirs on the street.”

“No need, you have a guitar here” he quickly dismissed, gesturing towards the guitar case on the opposite side of the room. “It is your guitar now.”

“Thank you…”, she breathed. “You aren’t afraid I’ve brought them with me?” she looked down at her scuffed Converse shoes, the soles almost flayed from their uppers.

“Not in the slightest” he replied. “And even if you did, I would handle it. I’m certainly not one to be spooked by a few vampire beetles.”

She offered a small at that, the relief on her face was palpable. Setting her bag down upon the floor she stepped forward and clutched him into a tight embrace which sent the blood spinning through the pipe ways of his veins with such sudden force that he became dizzy. What did he do with his arms? Should he hold her to him or pat her back? What did one do in a moment such as this? He searched his mind for the correct response in the banks of his knowledge of human behavior. One slender hand reached up and began to pat her hair, so lightly, he may as well have not been touching her at all.

He did not want to break the spell or rob himself of the warmth which ran from her body into his. Yet the harsh feelings of inadequacy tormented him. He knew he must feel rigid and unbending beneath the soft limbs which held him. Surely, she felt uncomfortable being pat on the head like some sort of pet. Desire was combating with his diffidence creating a very vexatious situation. He could feel himself responding physically, the telltale swelling in his groin, and it was quite problematic.

So, he spoke to put an end to the torture.

Pushing her carefully away, he gently squeezed her shoulder in a strange display of affection. He felt entirely out of his depth.

“Would you care to see your bedroom?” he asked.

Her eyes were looking at him with a brightness which hid some other emotion, and he could not fathom what it was. It bothered him, being unable to read the face of another as readily as he was accustomed to. Had he entirely lost his skills?

She nodded enthusiastically. “I can’t believe you built a bedroom all by yourself” she gushed with awe as they walked through the kitchen to the door leading to her new room and he felt a stirring of warm pride bloom in his chest.

“It is incomplete” he gently informed as he gestured to the doorknob for her to open.

Her delighted intake of breath spoke more than words. “Oh! You did all of this?” she breathed, her eyes taking in the entirety of the bedroom.

Over the last two days he had furnished the bedroom with the furniture he had kept in storage for several years. It was macabre, perhaps, to allow Christine to sleep in the very bed in which his mother had slept, possibly the very bed in which she had conceived him in. The mattress had been changed, but the memories were still there, all the times he had crept into his mother’s room at night to watch her sleep. Those were the only hours by which her face was peaceful in his presence, when she did not look at him as though he were the universe’s greatest failure.

After the night he left home, he never saw his mother alive again. He had tried to forget his time with the bitter ice queen, but in his second decade of life, news of her death came in the form of a glossy celebrity tabloid cover. She was a public figure after all, beloved on the silver screen, her beautiful image immortalized on film for the enjoyment of watchers everywhere. It was impossible to miss the mass mourning for the very woman who had made his childhood the hell it had been.

For whatever reason, be it more punishment from beyond the grave or a twisted sort of love, she had left her estate in his name. His mother had been an isolated individual, with no real family of her own, perhaps that had made his birth all the more ironic. She had more than likely held the expectation for a perfect child to call her family and instead she received him. How terribly disappointed she must have been.

The news of her death had left a lingering numbness that would not subside for weeks.

Then Daroga appeared in his life. The man was nothing, if not the greatest scent hound the world has ever seen. Erik laid no tracks, held no title, no name, no identification that was real. Every aspect of his legal identity, all his businesses, all his properties, were placed in sperate names of nonexistent individuals. And yet, the man had managed to track Erik down, appearing to him one night like the ghost of Christmas past with news of his mother’s bequeathment.

Erik had been enjoying a delightful show at the opera when man had walked right into his private box, during the performance, and regaled him with the news of his mother’s will.

“ _Someone really wanted you to have that estate, I’m not cheap”_ he had smugly informed Erik, who had considered killing him at the time, but was far too curious with the investigator’s search tactics, they could be quite useful.

_“I have no need for that odious woman’s fortune_ ” he had barked over the soprano belting her aria from the stage.

The ridiculous investigator felt fit to sit in the seat next to Erik, as though he had rented the box himself. Crossing his legs and glancing at Erik with a strange mix of curiosity and sympathy.

_“Your mother was an internationally famous actress, and yet, not a soul knows of your existence. I know the story, Erik, the reasons why this came to be. She did love you, in a pretty fucked up way, I think she wished to make some sort of amends. She had sent me on your trail long before she died, once the doctors informed her of her terminal status. You are, perhaps, my greatest achievement. I do not say that lightly, I have never had such trouble tracking an individual before.”_

He was completely ruining the performance with his odd speech of sympathetic bragging and Erik was quite done with it.

_“If you care for your life, you will vacate this box, remove yourself from this theatre and never attempt to find me again”_ he growled between gritted teeth. _“I am not one to be dealt with.”_

_“Yes, I know what you do”_ he simply replied, his jade eyes glinting in the light coming from the stage below. Erik stared back at him with a swirling hurricane of disdain and shock within his yellow eyes. The man reached into his pocket and handed Erik a slip of paper. _“Your mother left everything with me, the entirety of her estate. If you wish to claim it, you have only to call that number.”_

_“And what name do I give to such an insufferable face?”_ Erik had snarled, his hackles raised.

_“Ismaël”_ he replied with a smug smirk before exiting the confines of Erik’s private box.

For weeks, he stewed the knowledge, until, in a night of utter weakness, he had contacted Ismaël at the number provided and set up a meeting. Erik was a truly broken man then, lost in a world of involuntary grief and vice. The death of his mother had been the catalyst, which sped up the spiral he had already long been trapped within. He spun even faster, out of control, down towards the bottomless abyss of despair.

That was when he knew he had to quit the opiates he injected daily into his veins like a sacred ritual.

He had promptly sold her home and stored a handful of her belongings into storage, the bed was one of them. It was his intent never to see the cursed furniture again, but when he imagined Christine’s room, it was there, surrounded by the very wallpaper he had selected.

“There is someone who will be arriving soon, he will be assisting me in the completion of the bathroom” he said behind her from where he stood, so close he imagined he could smell her hair. “You do not need to answer any of his questions, Christine. He is very bothersome.”

“I get to meet one of your friends?” she asked as she walked into the room, her fingers reaching out to touch the black velveteen accents of the wallpaper.

“I would not call him a friend, he is my associate” Erik replied from where he stood in the doorway, he felt too unworthy to step inside the holy domain the room while she now stood within its confines.

“This is my favorite color” she said with a bright smile as she continued to feel the wallpaper.

Pointing his finger towards the closet, he said, “The outfits you ordered are in there. I will leave you and await our guest. Make this room yours, hang what you want on the walls.”

Quietly, he backed away from the scene of her hands caressing each item in the room. He lingered in the living room while Christine remained behind. He imagined her admiring the craftmanship of his inlaid floor, the crown molding, the brass light sconces, the designer furniture. She was here, truly here, sharing a space with him, beneath the very same roof.

It would have to be enough, to exist as her friend, despite the pain it brought.

The universe that existed inside his inner thoughts, in his secret desires, was marvelous and frightening. Oh, but to have someone to share it all with, to unburden himself of all the dreams he had ever dared to conjure. Dreams had always mocked him, like cruel jesters they had entered his consciousness unbidden and unspoiled. They danced about his mind like shadowless fairytales. Those dreams were the only beautiful things his mind had created, save his music. The images of things he longed for, such as love, had chased through his head like fleeting ghosts, ghosts which he carried with him everywhere. He had an infinite number of those phantoms hidden inside himself, tucked neatly away from the world like secrets that would never be slipped.

He wanted her love, desired it above all else, and yet, he feared the confession of his own feelings. What were his feelings? Was this what love felt like? Like free falling?

The knock upon the door a few minutes later broke him from his thoughts.

“You’ve arrived” he simply said as he opened the door to reveal Daroga standing in the hallway.

“I would not miss this appointment for the world, Erik” Daroga flashed a gleaming white smile.

Christine emerged from the kitchen; her eyes bright with expectancy.

“Daroga, meet Christine” he reluctantly gave the introduction.

Daroga stepped inside, his arm extended, “What a pleasure to meet you, Christine. Erik has told me so much about you.”

“Really?” she blushed brightly, her eyes turning shyly towards Erik.

“I have mentioned you but twice. Really, Daroga, you have such exaggerative language” he scoffed.

“Daroga? That’s your name?” Christine politely asked, as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture.

Daroga rolled his eyes dramatically. “Absolutely not. Daroga is Hindi, but it’s also considered a Persian term, it means inspector. I was born in Iran. Erik fancies himself a comedian calling me that, but I assure you, I prefer my real name.”

“What is your real name?” she softly asked, glancing at Erik from the corner of her eye. Oh she was so divine, such a sweet little thing.

“Ismaël” he replied with a warm smile.

“Ismaël...” she repeated “Are you a police officer?”

“Heavens, no!” Ismaël let loose a loud, bellow of laughter.

“Don’t lie to the girl, you police me all the time” Erik cut in, with a snarky bite to his words.

“You need policing” Ismaël gestured dismissively “Anyway, no, Christine, I am not a Policeman. I’m a skip tracer.”

“What is that?” she asked with great interest.

“It means I am very good at finding people, even better than our friend here.”

Erik rolled his eyes “It is the only thing at which you excel, aside from irritating me and interfering with my life.”

Christine looked between the two men, and Erik could see the thousands of questions that were brewing within her mind.

The phone in Erik’s pocket vibrated and he retrieved it to answer. While Christine and Ismaël watched him curiously, he muttered a brief reply into the phone.

“The delivery is here” he informed Ismaël. Turning to Christine he offered a slight smile, “We must carry in your tub.”

When the two men stood outside and watched four men unload the smooth, elegant bowl of a rose-colored marble tub with brass feet from the back of the truck, Ismaël turned to Erik.

“That is quite a bathtub” he remarked.

Erik hummed in his throat, “Custom made, it’s a modern take of a clawfoot, but less bulky in appearance.”

“It looks more like a vert large, egg shaped bowl…” Ismael turned to Erik with a raised eyebrow, “It also looks extremely heavy.”

“Why do you think I requested your help?” Erik smirked.

Erik would not allow the men to bring the tub any further than the bottom of the stairs leading to his front entryway. The men were, more than likely, too eager to get their haul delivered to notice the oddity of his front door. It was sitting upon metal furniture movers in the hallway of the basement when the delivery men left, driving off in their truck to deliver other goods.

“You could have told me that you bought a monolith for the woman. I feel like I’m preparing to build Stonehenge with this thing” Ismaël grumbled under his breath.

Ismaël grunted and groaned, complaining the whole way, as the two men rolled the solid stone object down the hallway and into Erik’s home. Christine was sitting upon the couch, wide eyed with wonder at the glorious hand carved marble bathroom art as they rolled through the front door.

Lifting it over the lips of doorways was a delicate task and Ismaël finally let out a relieved sigh when they eventually carted the burden into the bathroom of Christine’s room.

He stood, watching Erik connect the water system to the brass faucet of the tub.

“She’s very pretty” Ismaël commented slyly.

“Will you cease looking at her?” Erik quipped.

“She doesn’t know what you do.” It was not a question and it was spoken so lowly so as to keep Christine from catching the words in the other room.

Erik did not reply, merely shooting Ismaël a sharp glare of warning from where he sat inside the tub beside the faucet.

His longtime associate sighed and very carefully replied, “Erik, be careful. I don’t wish to see you hurt.”

Erik looked away and continued to tighten the last connection with a wrench. “It is too late for that, she’s already under my skin, I cannot remove her without killing myself.”

The other man made an expression of pity that nearly cleaved Erik in two.

Ismaël lingered until the tub was fully connected, giving a short applause when Erik turned the handle of the long, brass faucet to let a stream of water come cascading down. After that, he quickly made his departure, bidding Christine a fond farewell as he left, but Erik did not miss the concern in the eyes of his associate as he made his exit.

Later that evening, Erik sat upon the couch, and listened to the sounds of a bathtub being filled on the other side of Christine’s door and his mind went to an array of terrible and wonderful places.

Yes…it was far too late for him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments! They fuel my writing inspiration and make me wish to produce chapters with more expediency! :)


	20. The Differences in Swans

** Chapter Twenty: The Differences in Swans **

****

“I need to keep these here” she explained in the morning, placing a small orange plastic prescription container upon the kitchen counter. The transparency allowed for him to spy the yellow and blue capsules within. “I won’t forget to take them if they’re here in the morning…It’s an antidepressant.” she further explained, almost sheepishly. “I’m not sure how long I need to be on it.” She sighed. “Perhaps forever…”

“You should carry no shame in that” he softly replied as he worked to make a shot of espresso.

“Do you take anything?” she asked, but then she squeezed her eyes tight and began to wave her hands in a dismissive gesture, as though trying to erase the words from the air between them. “I’m sorry. That was rude, it’s not my business.”

“No” he said. “I do not, but I am accustomed to my misery” he turned to offer a smirk as though it were a dark joke and not simply the truth, but he could see the flash of pained empathy in her eyes. She did not see the humor in a confession so bleak. He changed the subject, “I trust you slept well?”

“Yeah, it’s really quiet in here despite being in the middle of the city” she replied.

“I remodeled it that way” he turned around and handed her the tiny cup of espresso.

She accepted it with a cheeky grin, “I’ve gotten used to serving you espresso.” Looking down into the steaming crema on the surface of the shot, she frowned, and said, “The espresso at the café is really bad, isn’t it?” Lifting the cup to her lips, he watched with a nearly perverse attentiveness as she sipped the caramel-colored liquid between her pert, pink lips. He had never been more envious of a cup.

She stood idly in the kitchen, sipping the rest of the shot and nibbling on a scone, close enough to him that he could reach out and touch her if it were his wish. When the cup was empty, she sat it down upon the counter and politely excused herself as she left to ready for the day. He waited with bated breath until she had closed her bedroom door before lifting the still-warm ceramic cup to his thin lips, in precisely the same location hers had been, and planting a kiss upon it.

He knew he was in far over his head and he could not shake the lingering sense of doom which coated his joy like an ominous film. She represented chaos and life and he knew he was only more than willing to jump into that spinning vortex and hope he made it out alive on the other side. It this maelstrom of unknowns, he was bound be ripped asunder by flying debris and shrapnel. Yet, if he had to eviscerate himself to love her, so be it. It seemed a sacrifice worth making, for what else did he have in his pitiful existence left to lose?

When she emerged again, her hair neatly brushed, wearing a thick deep purple sweater and black denim which clung to her shapely legs, he was sitting at the piano bench drumming his fingers idly upon the fallboard.

“I have the day off” she said as she approached. “It’s the second Tuesday of the month…free museum day. My father and I used to go every month, we would usually pick a few paintings and try to interpret them…I was planning to go, but maybe you’d like to come with me?”

She was blushing again…what did it mean?

The request was such a simple one, attend an art museum with her. Yet, there was no way she could possibly understand the significance in her invitation, that she implied her willingness to be seen in public with him.

“I have…never been to a museum” he confessed. All his interactions with art were done vicariously through books and the internet. He had helped design a museum, had walked its empty hallways at night, but once, before any artwork had been installed for display.

“That surprises me” she smiled. “You seem so cultured.”

He made a slight gesture to his face and her expression shifted to one of understanding as she sat to join him upon the piano bench. Her leg brushed against his and the bright fragrance of her shampoo washed upon him. It was overloading his fragile senses and he swallowed down the wave of glee that rose within him.

“Erik’s face was never so easily accepted in public” he said with a regal level of confidence that compensated for the pitiful meaning of the words. “But Erik has a new face now, he can leave his home in the daylight, certainly a museum is not out of the question…”

She was looking at him with a puzzled expression, as though the words he had just uttered were pure gibberish. Without asking her fingers reached up and brushed lightly on the cheek of the prosthetic.

“It’s so soft” she breathed. “It does look very real.”

The gesture was so intimate, her gaze upon him so soft, for a moment, he had the absurdly flattering impression that she wished to be closer to him. Wordlessly, he extended his large, skeletal hand and brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb in return.

“Not nearly as soft as yours” he murmured. Her gaze grew…expectant and her lips parted, wide enough so he could see the slight moisture inside. She seemed as though she anticipated something. He grew exceedingly uncomfortable and stood abruptly from the bench, straightening his suit jacket. He needed the distance to break the spell he had just fallen under.

“I would like to attend the museum with you” he gruffly spoke, his voice almost unrecognizable to his own ears. Her confused expression broke into a sunny smile as she excitedly slapped her hands upon her thighs twice.

They were in the Tesla several minutes later. He glanced at his reflection in the silvery surface of the rearview mirror, catching only his eyes and nose. His reflection still made him flinch, but not in the same way it had in the past. Rather than revulsion, it was unfamiliarity which caused him to recoil. His eyes flicked to were Christine sat in the passenger’s seat watching him.

“I wish you didn’t feel like you needed to wear all of that for me when we’re in your own home” she softly said.

“It has practical purposes” he muttered, unwilling to go into the details of life without a nose. It was true, he was far more comfortable without a mask upon his face but leaving a gaping nasal cavity fully exposed came with its own problems.

He moved to start the car, but Christine’s hand fell onto his shoulder, as light as a sparrow. “Thank you…for being there that night in the alley. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how lucky I must have been to have someone like you find me. Your face doesn’t change anything, you’re still the same person who found me that night.”

Except he was not. He wanted to be worlds away from the man who had considered imprisoning a young woman. What madness! He could never tell her that, what would she say? ‘Thank you for saving me with the intent to keep me?’

Breaking his gaze away from her shining blue eyes, he ignited the engine of the vehicle.

_She can never know how mad Erik truly is…_

As they drove the distance to the museum of her choosing, she chittered about regular customers at the café. He tried to focus on her words, but the small pocket of guilt in his stomach felt like it was bursting at the seams. She was grateful to him and he accepted such gratitude like the desperate, lonely thing that he was, but she could not possibly know the wicked selfishness of his deeds. There was the most masochistic desire to simply spill the truth of the night in the alley.

_‘I stalked you and snatched you up as any good predator does’_ he could say. It would certainly assuage his guilt, while sending her to flee.

Guilt seemed a simple thing to live with, but loss…he had never known loss, would he survive such a thing?

She always looked at him with those eyes that spoke of open trust. The treasure chest of her acceptance was unlocked and propped wide open for his easy perusal, yet he was spotted with sin and feared he would tarnish all which he touched. Despite her difficult past few years, she had maintained a glowing radiance inside which he feared he would corrupt.

Guilt was such a peculiar emotion. It had not fallen upon him since childhood, in the moments he believed he lay solely responsible for his mother’s unhappiness.

The museum parking lot was not nearly as crowded as he had expected it to be. There were plenty of free spaces and only a handful of strangers milling in and out of the large glass doors of the building.

“I thought we should come to this one because it doesn’t get as much attention as some of the other museums closer to the city” Christine said as they sat in the parked car. “You’ve really never gone out in public like this before?” Her words were not those of judgement, nor did they come attached with the sticky nuisance of pity. There was a patient acceptance lining her question, as though he were a difficult subject that she was willing to study with due diligence.

“I’ve only recently explored the possibilities of the new mask” he replied honestly.

“You’ve never been out before recently?” she softly asked, her hand landing softly on his forearm in a bid to have him look at her.

When his eyes met hers, he found there a warmth that he had not anticipated. It gave him the sense that he could tell her almost anything and she would take the information with a careful reverence.

“Not like this. I have found the dark to be quite flattering to that which is undesirable” he replied with a smoothness which softened the angst of his words. “I have lived a very fascinating yet sheltered life. A consequence of my difference…”

He was still aware of the small hand tenderly gripping his forearm, he could feel each individual finger through the fabric of his suit.

She gave him a disarming smile. “I’m really glad that I could be with you now. I wonder if maybe we’re both helping each other. You saved me, now I can save you.”

Could he truly be saved?

She rose up in the seat and she gave him a quick kiss on his false cheek, it was an act that happened so quickly he was unable to process it as it occurred, nor could he feel it through the silicone material.

_She kissed me…she kissed Erik!_

His heart hummed loudly as he watched her exit the vehicle. Unable to move himself, he blinked rapidly with surprise, so quickly he swore he could hear the sound of his own eyelids flapping. Every inch of his skin felt alive, as though he had gripped a live current and was riding the electric wave.

There was no way she could possibly understand what she had just so freely bestowed upon his virgin face. What would she do if she knew she was the first living soul to place a kiss upon his cheek?

She was standing by the trunk of the car when he finally emerged outside in the sunlight, full of a confidence he did not know he could possibly possess. A beautiful woman, who had seen what lay beneath his facial covering, had kissed him like he was anyone else. He was certain he was staring at her with a strange sort of wonder and was acutely aware of the absurd grin he must have surely had plastered on his face.

And she smiled back! Then she extended her arm, and he took it.

He would go to the museum every day if it was like this every time.

“How old are you?” she suddenly asked as they walked with their arms linked. Her body language spoke of a casual easiness, but he was exceptionally stiff from nervous energy. To go one’s whole life with limited contact only to become spoiled with such easy affection…it was nearly unbearable.

“Something between forty or forty-five… I am not completely certain. I never requested my birth records from my mother. We did not leave on good terms.”

“Erik…” he could hear the pity now. She had read the details between the lines of his words, and surely, she had painted a tragic picture of his childhood in her head.

“Let us not speak of her. I wish to enjoy this time without the cloud of that terrible, unhappy woman in my head.”

Her arm tightened against his, it felt like she was comforting him.

“They have a rose garden in the back and a pond with swans” she told him, changing the subject. He released her arm to open the door for her. “It’s really fun to walk around, most people don’t take the time to enjoy it.

The museum was bright and airy inside, full of natural light that came streaming through skylights with windows designed to filter out the light which was often harmful to works of art. He knew, because he had consulted on the construction of this museum ten years prior. There had been some engineering concerns with the domed roof, and they had sought his expertise. The layout of this building was not new to him. Christine did not need to know that though, he wished for her to feel like the true expert, to share her enthusiasm as she gave him her own tour.

Together they walked the halls, glancing at precious masterpieces, each baring the soul and blood of its creator. Christine knew of the works in each room, some devoted to surrealism, some to cubism, expressionism…they eventually found themselves standing before a statue. It was built of bronze, not a casting, but it appeared to have been burned and molded to take the shape of the upper torso of an unclothed, emaciated man. He was grinning at them with a cockiness, but his face looked incomplete. There was a large gaping hole in the cheek and the side of his head, yet the man continued to grin and stare out with eyes which seemed to challenge. ‘ _I dare you to look’_ it seemed to say.

“This is the one my father and I could never figure out” Christine said as they stood before the unnerving piece. The torso of the man was also riddled with gaping holes that looked like they had been blown away with some sort of force. It was as though the metal man had suffered the ravages of war yet still stood, eager to embrace life.

“It is unsettling, it looks incomplete” Erik said, wishing to tear his eyes away from the art which felt so familiar.

“I love it” she softly said “It’s beautiful in a raw sort of way. I think I can feel his soul.” She looked up into Erik’s eyes.

“What if his soul is quite hideous?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He has a trusting smile. I think he just needs someone to love him”

He indulged Christine’s desire to stand before the troubling statue for a while longer, nearly laughing when she quickly looked around to see if anyone was looking before reaching a small finger out to touch one of the rough holes in the bronze torso of the sunken chest, a hole where the heart should be. While she did this, somewhere on his own neglected chest, he could almost feel the tips of her fingers. 

They spent over an hour inside the museum, as she murmured her thoughts on pieces and showed him her favorite works. She seemed to gravitate towards the pieces that made him feel the most. It was clear she was not one to look at art purely for its aesthetics, but rather, she longed to understand them intimately. He did not miss it when she rolled her eyes at a Warhol print nor did he fail to capture how dismissively she glanced at simple still life works of fruit or instruments. It was the art with the most guts that typically halted her in her tracks, the ones which looked as though their creators went through literal hell to bring to fruition, as though they had painted in their own blood much in the same manner he had written his most recent composition...

As they made it towards the back end of the museum, they passed a few patrons who were far too busy looking at the walls to give them a second glance. Christine insisted they walk around the garden. It was a monthly tradition for her and her father to gaze upon the swans.

They were alone in the large garden, with its roses in bloom despite the winter chill that cut through the air. Christine reached out and stroked the petals of a few of the larger flowers as they walked down the pathway leading to the pond. Erik was becoming aware of the tactile creature his sweet beloved was, which loved to touch and be touched.

If only he could reach out and take her hand.

_You’re so wonderful, why can I not touch you?_

“I had a using dream last night” she said, breaking the stillness of the air around them, the words coated with the fog of her breath. “It was awful, more like a nightmare. I relapsed and I died. You found me, and you tried to move me off the floor, but you couldn’t, it was like I was too heavy or glued down or something. My father was there for some reason and he was in the corner crying and laughing while he watched you try over and over again to pick me up. It was like I was watching it all happen from inside the ceiling, like my soul was trapped there halfway in the plaster and concrete. My eyes in my body were open and staring right back into mine, like they knew I was there suspended in space. I have never felt more helpless than I did in that dream.”

Her confession chilled him as she painted a pretty and morbid portrait of her own death.

“Don’t worry…” she continued, “That was enough of a message for me to understand what’s at stake. I’ve been going to these meetings a few times a week by the café and this young guy that was going there stopped…we all found out why.” She frowned and turned her face to the pond where a group of swans lazily drifted across its reflective surface. “He died. He messed up one time and he died. He wasn’t too much younger than me…” She turned towards him, “Do you have using dreams?”

“I do not usually dream, but I suppose in the beginning. It’s quite normal, I think…They fade.”

“I haven’t had the desire to pick up since I left treatment. I wonder if God is looking out.”

He prayed she would not ask him about his thoughts on the existence of God, he could fill a large ledger with his opinions on the subject, none of them suitable for a woman yearning for hope.

“Look!” she breathed. In the center of the swans there sat upon the water a black one. It’s feathers were fully saturated with dark pigment and its beak was a slice of crimson. It moved about the water like a king above all the rest. “I’ve never seen a black swan before…I didn’t know they were real.”

He hummed in his throat. “Cygnus atratus…it is its own species.”

She turned to him with an impressed look upon her face. “Well, I can certainly count on you to supply me with the bird facts.”

“It was one of the ways I taught myself to read” he said without thinking, the words slipping easily from his lips. He had never confessed this to anyone before. “My mother did not send me to school, there was a stack of books in the basement that I used to teach myself. One was a book of Australian birds…so my bird knowledge is quite niche.”

“God, Erik. Your mothers sounds like a real bitch” she put her hands up in a supplicative gesture. “No offense.”

He chuckled. “You should not speak ill of the dead, Christine.”

“Did you really teach yourself how to read?”

“I had no other choice.”

“I really don’t know what to do with this new information. Do you ever, like, talk about your childhood?”

“What would be the purpose?” he almost sneered. “It’s best left where it is, in the past. What good would dragging it up do? Erik has moved on.”

“You can always talk to me about it…friends, remember?”

_Friends…_

She looked back into the pond with a sadness tinting her blue irises, and he knew he was the cause.

“He must be new. I’ve never seen him here before” she said about the black swan which floated in their direction. “I think he’s my favorite new thing.”

His lips turned up at the corner. “You do not prefer the ethereal white birds?”

“They look like all the others” she dismissed. “But not him, he’s different, I like him for that.” She placed her hand on his back and that electrifying jolt shot through his body again. He had never felt more alive than he did on this day with her. “Do you think we can get something to eat? There’s a diner nearby, they have terrible coffee, I know that’s your favorite” she winked. “Maybe I can convince you to eat a slice of pie with me…”

He offered her a genuine smile and nodded his head. Today he felt like a man who had been reborn.

_He’s different, I like him for that…_

Perhaps the existence of God was not too far-fetched after all.


End file.
